The Case of the Broken Ties
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: A vengeful plot results in Perry and most of the others losing their memories. Only Hamilton and Paul know the truth. Can they convince the rest of their real lives, and unmask the hateful villain pulling the strings, before time runs out?
1. Box

**Perry Mason**

**The Case of the Broken Ties**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the television series are not mine. The other characters and the story are! This is a sequel to my story **_**The Case of the Macabre Mansion**_**, but I don't feel it needs to be read first. It's probably going to be quite a strange and wild ride, very different from any **_**Perry**_** venture anyone has attempted before, but I hope you will all enjoy it!**

**Chapter One**

It was a chilly December evening when Hamilton stepped into his secretary's office, weary but triumphant after a long day in court. Leon, hard at work on his laptop, looked up.

"Hello, Sir," he greeted. "Did it go well?"

Hamilton looked to him with a smile. "It's just the first day of the trial, but I'm sure we've got this one in the bag. One count of attempted murder and one count of murder one for Vivalene. Flo's being charged as an accessory to an attempted murder and an accessory to murder one."

"And there's nothing Judge Heyes can do about it?"

"With his office under heavy investigation? No. He won't be able to try busting those girls out in any way." Hamilton headed for the inner office. "And we're going to get him too."

Leon nodded in approval. "I believe you will, Sir." He resumed typing, but abruptly paused and looked up again. "Oh! You had a call while you were out. It was from Howie Peterson. He sounded keyed up."

Hamilton frowned. "Did he say why?"

"He said something about a light coming from a box. I don't know; I couldn't make sense of it."

"Alright. I'll call him back. Thank you, Leon."

Hamilton was troubled as he stepped into his office and switched on the lights. Seven-year-old Howie Peterson and his family were mixed up in the Vivalene case. Vivalene and her sister Flo had been determined to get hold of a supposed treasure in the Peterson home, and had used all manner of trickery, blackmail, and even murder, in their attempts to get it.

During the hearing Howie had given all the testimony he could to the judge and the attorneys in the judge's chambers. They hoped to not call him again unless it was absolutely critical. Today, for the trial, he had been home with his godmother, Mignon Germaine. Howie's parents had been at the courthouse, still needed as vital witnesses.

The case was highly distressing to the impressionable kid. Who knew what he meant by a light in a box. Hamilton honestly hadn't the faintest idea.

He sank down at his desk and grabbed the phone, dialing the Petersons' number. After two rings it was answered. "Hello?"

"Mignon. Hello," Hamilton greeted, recognizing his friend's voice. "I just got back from court. Leon tells me that Howie called here earlier."

"He did." The emotions behind Mignon's level voice were indiscernible. "He's right here, Hamilton. I'll let you speak with him. But first I want to congratulate you. Your progress in court is all over the evening news."

"This has been a pretty big case," Hamilton acknowledged. "Without Vivalene's precious friends for her to lean on, it's been going faster than it could have."

"That's good. The number of public officials Vivalene had working for her is shocking. Or perhaps I should say the names are more shocking than the numbers.

"Here's Howie. He's very anxious to talk to you."

Hamilton barely had time to say "Alright" before a young voice came over the line.

"Mr. Burger! Did Mignon tell you about the box?"

"No, she didn't," said Hamilton. "How about you tell me?"

"We found the treasure!"

Hamilton was surprised. "The treasure on the map?"

"Yup! And this weird box was with a bunch of gold coins and stuff. We can't get the lid off, but it's glowing inside!"

"How can you tell?" Hamilton queried.

"It shines through the crack under the lid. It's creepy!" Howie said.

Hamilton reached for a pen. "What does Mignon think it is?"

"She doesn't know. But she told me I shouldn't touch it."

"You probably shouldn't. Is someone coming out to look at the box and the coins?"

"Yeah, some guy from the museum. Will you come out and see the box first?"

"Me?" Hamilton leaned back. "I don't think I'd be very good at figuring out what it is."

"No, but you could see it," Howie said in earnest.

Hamilton glanced at the clock. Since the treasure fit quite deeply into the case he had been prosecuting, he should see it regardless of what was going on with that box.

"I'll be there within the hour," he promised.

"Yay!" Howie cheered. "Okay, we'll wait for you."

They hung up, and Hamilton moved to tap out another number. He had several phone calls to make. He wasn't the only one involved with this mystery who would want to see the fabled Peterson treasure.

xxxx

Vivalene gripped a handful of blanket as she stretched out on her cot. Her bangs covered her eyes, but if they were visible the smoldering fire within them would be all too clear. Hamilton Burger had had a triumphant day. For Vivalene, it had been a bad day. An angering day. A day to slap her lawyer and scream at him for his incompetence in defending her and her sister.

She hated them, a_ll_ of them. Especially the district attorney. And she had no intention of either rotting in prison or being executed. She would find a way out of this. She had always managed to before.

"You have a visitor."

Vivalene looked up as the door of her cell clanged open. The matron watched her, no-nonsense as always. The staff was fully aware of her trickery and treachery. She would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. No one could let down their guard around her for one moment.

"Thank you, darling," Vivalene said as she got up. Displeasure dripped from every word.

When she was escorted into the visiting room, however, genuine surprise replaced all other emotions. The man sitting and waiting at the table was a complete stranger to her. Vivalene slinked in, not about to let her current, _unfashionable_ attire stop her from making a traditional, sultry entrance.

"Hello," she purred. "Darling, I'm afraid you have the advantage of me. I don't know who you are."

The man stood and held out his hand. "I came on behalf of a mutual . . . friend of ours," he told her.

Vivalene shook his hand slowly, cautiously, still unsure what to make of him. "I see," she said. "You'll forgive my cynicism, but I don't seem to have many friends right now."

When they were left alone, the matron waiting near the door, the man leaned in closer. "Judge Heyes sends his regrets," he muttered.

"I return them," Vivalene said without batting an eye. "He really hasn't proved to be very useful to me this time. The district attorney has gotten his claws into the judge's robes. And he's not about to let go."

The stranger smiled. "That's all going to change," he said. "Is your sister still looking for the Egyptians' Forbidden Box?"

"She was hoping it would turn up with the Petersons' treasure, yes," Vivalene said. She laughed. "I don't believe that any such thing is real. It's only a myth, like Pandora's Box."

"Don't be so sure." He gestured to the table. "Please, sit." Vivalene did so. Her companion sat across from her.

"Are you trying to say you have the box?" Vivalene frowned.

"It's been found." The man's smile deepened into a cruel smirk. "And another mutual friend can gain access to the Petersons' home and set its power loose. All he has to do is go there in place of the man who is supposed to come from the museum."

Vivalene crossed her arms on the table. "This still sounds preposterous to me," she said. "I have no way of knowing that you're telling the truth. And since it's my sister who wants this device, why have you come to me?"

"I have a proposition for you," was the reply. "Tell me what you would like to see in a world of your making—what position you would want to hold. What situations you would want to see your enemies in. Tell me and I can pass the word along. We can make such a world happen."

"With the use of this box of the occult, you mean," Vivalene surmised.

"That's right. Well? Are you interested?" The shadows fell across his features, making him appear all the more deadly.

"I can have any world I want," Vivalene said, desiring to make certain.

"Within reason," her visitor said, spreading his hands. "As long as it doesn't contradict what Judge Heyes wants."

"Ah, there we go." Vivalene's lips curled in a dangerous smile. "Tell me more."

xxxx

Hamilton drove up to the Petersons' house and parked in front. The others would likely arrive before too long. They had all been greatly interested in the news that the elusive treasure had been found at last. It had played such a critical role in the case.

He frowned as he glanced at the house next-door. It was vacant, and pending the conclusion of the trial, it remained in police custody. Vivalene had lived there for the last few weeks before her arrest. The secret compartments and tunnels that snaked through the old walls had contained several vital pieces of evidence for the state. There could even be more in other, undiscovered locations. Once the trial was over, the house would go on the real estate market again.

It was debatable whether there would be any takers. Some people would probably shy away from it due to the questionable woman who had lived there. Others, adventurous and curious, would likely want it _because_ of that.

Howie was flinging the Petersons' front door open and running to meet Hamilton before he was even halfway up the walk. "Mr. Burger!" he exclaimed. "You're here! Come on, come see what we found!"

"Okay, I'm coming," said Hamilton in amusement. He quickened his pace.

Mignon appeared in the doorway as they arrived. "Hello, Hamilton," she greeted. "This box is a strange artifact. Howie's been fascinated since discovering it, but . . ."

She was cut off by Howie running past and grabbing a rectangular container from off the living room mantel. "See?" he said, holding it out for Hamilton's inspection. "This is it!"

Hamilton's eyebrows shot up. It was quite an ordinary box, really, except for one small thing—the mysterious purple glow that was coming from under the sealed lid.

"You still don't know what's causing this?" he frowned as he reached for it.

Howie gladly handed it to him. "Nope," he said. "It was glowing like this when we found it!"

Mignon stepped closer to Hamilton, lowering her voice as she spoke. "The lock hasn't been tampered with. There's no reason for it to be illuminated, unless the explanation is one you won't want to think about."

"What's that?" Hamilton hefted the box. The light did not so much as waver. "Black magic?"

Mignon nodded. "The glow makes me uneasy."

"Well, it makes me uneasy too," Hamilton said. He set it back on the mantel. "But that doesn't mean I think it's anything supernatural. There's probably just something normal in the box that causes a glow."

"Such as?" Mignon returned.

". . . I don't know," Hamilton admitted. "I can't think of anything that would cause a purple light. But there has to be something!"

He glanced at it once more. "What are these hieroglyphics on the lid? Ancient Egyptian?"

"Yes. The man coming from the museum, Mr. Welles, is an Egyptologist. He will translate if he can." Mignon was still visibly concerned. "It may be a spell that unlocks the box . . . or something inside it."

Hamilton chuckled. "The worst thing that might be in there is probably ancient Egyptian dust."

"But that wouldn't explain the glow," Mignon pointed out.

Hamilton sobered and sighed. "No, it wouldn't," he consented. "I just can't believe that something as crazy as black magic really exists. I guess that would mean that white magic is real, too."

"Would that be so terrible?" Mignon returned.

"Either of them defy logic," Hamilton said, shaking his head. "It just sounds like something out of some kid's fairytale book." He looked at Mignon, thoughtful. "Tell me, Mignon. You believe in this kind of stuff, but have you ever seen any proof that magic exists?"

Mignon considered her response. "I feel that I have," she said. "Of course, I'm sure a skeptic could come up with a different explanation every time."

"I'm sure I could," Hamilton said.

"A lot of the true power of magic is in the mind, as you yourself deduced," Mignon said. "Those who refuse to believe cannot be affected, at least not in the same way as a believer. Perhaps for them, sometimes, it's worse."

"Worse?" Hamilton echoed. "I'd like to have you explain that one to me."

Howie was most uninterested in the grown-ups' conversation. He scurried back to the door at the sound of more car doors slamming shut. "Mr. Mason! Miss Street!" he called, waving wildly from the doorway.

Perry, who was escorting Della by the arm to the front yard, looked over in surprise. "Hello, Howie," he called back. Della waved.

Howie skipped back inside to await their arrival.

Della smiled. "It's really amazing, how much he's started to open up," she said.

Perry nodded. "It's almost hard to believe this is the same boy who was so quiet and didn't want to talk to strangers."

"I'm sure finding out his toys didn't cause Vivalene's sister to fall down the stairs helped," Della said. "That must have been a terrible burden weighing on his mind."

"I don't doubt it. But I think associating with Hamilton has helped a great deal too." Perry smiled. "It's easy to see how much Howie idolizes him."

"I was surprised when the Petersons asked Mr. Burger to be Howie's godfather," Della said.

"From what Mignon said, no one was more surprised than Hamilton," Perry remarked. "But I think he's been enjoying it."

Hamilton came to the doorway as they reached the steps. "Hello, Perry, Della," he said.

"Hello, Hamilton," Perry said. "I'm assuming you've seen this legendary treasure you called about?"

"I've seen part of it," Hamilton said. He stepped out of the way so they could enter.

"What's it like?" Della wondered. "I've been so curious."

"Well . . ." Hamilton hesitated. "I'd tell you, but I'm afraid it would sound more than outlandish."

Della only half-heard. As she and Perry walked into the entryway, the box caught her eye. Her mouth fell open. "What on earth . . . !" She made her way over, lifting it from the mantel and studying it in bewilderment. "What's making it light up?"

"There must be more treasure inside!" Howie grinned from the couch. "There was a whole bunch of gold coins in the big chest everything was in!"

Perry came over to examine the box as well. "That must be some treasure," he said. He sat down on another couch, facing Howie. "How did you find this chest, Howie?"

"It was hard," Howie said. "Those maps were really weird! They didn't show anything the way it was supposed to be. The chest was up in the attic in this old wardrobe. And we weren't even using the map then!"

"Howie was in the attic looking for some old toys of his father's," Mignon put in. She, Perry, and Della exchanged greetings.

Now Perry registered surprise. "I thought all indications were that the solution to the maps was in the basement."

Howie gave a sage nod. "Yeah. It was like the maps were upsidedown or something!"

"Is that possible?" Della wondered. "There wasn't any writing on them to be able to tell for sure."

Mignon sighed. "No, but it did seem as though they were meant to be aligned as we originally thought. The illustrations made the most sense that way. Maybe the chest was in the basement and then moved." She stepped away. "But it doesn't make sense that a large trunk of gold would be moved without anyone looking inside."

"And if they did, they wouldn't leave it," Perry said.

"Maybe they were planning to come back for it," Hamilton said. "They could've stored it where they thought it would be safe until then."

Perry nodded, thoughtful. "They could have."

Della looked to Mignon. "Aren't Howie's parents here?" she wondered.

"They're in Douglas's study, discussing the treasure," Mignon said. "I'll tell them you're here." She turned to start down the hall.

"Hello?" Paul called, peering through the open front doorway.

Perry glanced over. "Come in, Paul," he said. "We're just discussing a mysterious glowing box."

"A _what?_" Paul stepped inside and hastened over to the scene by the mantel. "Holy mackerel!"

"Interesting, isn't it." Perry followed Paul's gaze.

"_Weird_ and _creepy_ is more like it," Paul said. "We already had Halloween. This looks like a leftover prop from Flo's haunted house."

"She didn't put any boxes like this in the house," Howie objected. "This is some of our treasure."

Paul looked to him. "That must be some doozy of a treasure."

"Well, good evening. Are we late for the party?"

Everyone turned to face the doorway as Lieutenants Tragg and Anderson wandered into the house.

Perry smiled, standing up to greet them. "Why, no. You're both just in time." He walked over, the others following. "How are you, Andy?"

"Just fine, Perry," Andy smiled. "The doctors gave me a clean bill of health. I'll be back on the job in no time now."

Perry nodded in approval. "I know I speak for every one of us when I say we'll all be happy to see you return to work."

Della was in complete agreement. "Andy, you're looking well," she said.

Andy looked to her. "Thank you. It's been a long road back, I can tell you that." He still moved slightly slower than usual, but other than the scars it was the only remaining indication of his ordeal. And that would heal before long as well.

"I'm doing everything I can to make sure Vivalene pays for what she did," Hamilton vowed.

"I know you are," Andy said. "And I want to do my part and testify against her when the time comes."

It was partially Vivalene's attempted murder of Andy that was resulting in a very expedited hearing and trial. Everyone had been outraged by the cold, cruel manner in which she had sniped at Andy in the Peterson home nearly two months before. She was a deadly woman. To have shot Andy and not feel any remorse, who knew what else she might be capable of doing.

"Well," Tragg said as he wandered farther into the living room, "I don't see our friend from the museum. Hasn't he arrived yet?"

"No," Hamilton frowned, glancing at the clock. "I thought he might have got here before any of us."

"And he would have, if he hadn't been held up all of a sudden."

Hamilton jumped a mile at the unfamiliar voice. As he and the others turned to look, a strange man stepped onto the Welcome mat. He smiled a greasy smile, tipping his hat to the side.

Hamilton frowned. "I see," he said in reply. He cast an offhand glance at Perry. This was not who he had expected to see. He was not sure what to make of it. And from Perry's expression as he returned the look, neither was he.

Mignon returned to the living room at that moment, Martha and Douglas Peterson in tow. When she caught sight of the newcomer she stopped short, her expression turning frostily suspicious. "You are not the man I spoke with over the telephone," she declared.

A unconcerned shrug. "Mr. Welles couldn't make it, so he asked me to take over. My credentials." He produced several articles, which Douglas took and looked through.

"Everything seems to be in order," he said. "Mr. Vann." He handed the papers back.

Mignon leaned over, whispering to Martha and Hamilton. "Mr. Welles didn't have any other appointments," she said. "He made coming here his top priority."

Martha nodded with a frown. "Sir, about Mr. Welles. . . ."

Mr. Vann was replacing his credentials in his briefcase. "He sends his deepest regrets. It came up all of a sudden as he was leaving. Some sort of family crisis."

Martha and Douglas exchanged looks. "Nothing serious, I hope," Douglas said at last.

"I'm not sure, actually," Mr. Vann said. "He was in such a rush to get away."

"Well . . ." Martha stepped forward, still looking uneasy. "We were planning to invite him to dinner before he inspected the artifacts. It's ready now, so if you'd like to join us . . ."

"I would be honored," answered Mr. Vann, perhaps a bit too smoothly.

"Then come this way, everyone," Martha said, bravely turning towards the kitchen.

Paul leaned over to Perry as they started to walk. "Don't look now, but I've got a bad feeling about this guy," he muttered.

Perry frowned. "Something is off," he agreed, studying Mr. Vann. "But I'm not sure what it is."

"I say we'd better figure it out, and fast," Paul said.

Perry concurred.


	2. Dinner

**Notes: Mr. Vann is based heavily on Mr. Gold from the TV series **_**Once Upon a Time**_**, one of the only recent shows I've had an interest in. In fact, some elements of this story are going to end up seeming like elements of that series, but that is largely coincidental; I've been intrigued by the plot concept long before that series came to be. And as for the tablet mentioned here, it was initially the idea of Crystal Rose of Pollux, although its connection to the box is my idea.**

xxxx

**Chapter Two**

A tense feeling settled over the group as they gathered in the large kitchen for dinner. Mr. Vann seemed very calm and sure of himself. The quiet, almost knowing smile on his lips while he spread his napkin was somehow out of place.

Mignon finally ventured to start the dinner conversation. "How long have you studied Egyptology, Mr. Vann?"

He looked her way. "Fifteen years, Ms. Germaine," he said. His voice was still perfectly smooth. "I've been one of Mr. Welles' most trusted colleagues."

"I do think I remember hearing something about you on the news recently," Andy said. "Didn't you make some sort of breakthrough discovery on an expedition?"

"You're up-to-date, Lieutenant," Mr. Vann smiled. "Yes, we brought back some incredible finds from that trip. The most publicized has been a tablet that I believe is the lost Slab of Reflections."

"What an intriguing name." Perry regarded Mr. Vann with genuine curiosity. "What is its purpose?"

Mr. Vann went for a bite of mashed potatoes. "According to legend, it works in conjunction with the Forbidden Box. One who commands magic to a certain extent is supposedly able to use the Forbidden Box to call forth images of specific people to be carved into this slab. Once these images are in place, the user can control the persons' lives any way he wishes."

Howie's eyes went wide. "They'd be slaves?"

"To the user's whims, yes," Mr. Vann said. "If the legend's terms have been passed down correctly."

"That's absolutely frightening," Della exclaimed.

"Well, we're lucky it's only a legend," Mr. Vann said. "Aren't we, Miss Street?"

"But most, if not all, legends have some basis in fact," Perry said. "You say you believe this tablet you found is the Slab of Reflections. Doesn't that mean you also believe that at least some of the legend is real?"

"In a sense, I suppose so," Mr. Vann consented. "I believe it's the slab that started the legend, not necessarily that it can do all that it has been rumored to bring about."

"Mr. Welles told you about the box we found, didn't he?" Douglas spoke. "And the Egyptian characters on the lid?"

"That's the main reason he asked me to fill in," Mr. Vann said.

Hamilton tried to not appear too amused. "Mr. Vann, you don't think that the box is this Forbidden Box that goes along with your slab, do you?"

An easy shrug. "It's impossible to say, Mr. Burger. Especially not until I've seen the box for myself." Mr. Vann leaned back. "But I will admit that the initial description Mr. Welles gave to me checks out with what's known about the Forbidden Box."

"So, just supposing for a minute that all of this is true," Paul said. "Doesn't that mean that these things could potentially destroy the world?"

"Potentially," Mr. Vann said. "In the wrong hands such artifacts would be highly dangerous." He looked around the table, taking in each of his fellow diners. "And I'm sure none of us want that."

"Of course not," Perry said.

"Of course, I would hope none of us are seriously considering that such a thing is possible," Hamilton said.

"It does sound ludicrous, by all means," Mr. Vann said. "But just for the fun of it, suppose none of you had the lives you have now. What would you be doing instead?"

Della shook her head. "I've never really thought about it," she said with a slight chuckle. "I can't imagine being anything but Mr. Mason's secretary."

"Come now; everyone's thought about other paths they could have taken," Mr. Vann said. "Most of us even tried things aside from the jobs we have now."

"I haven't tried anything!" Howie piped up.

"Indeed, Master Howie," Mr. Vann purred. "Your point is well-taken. Master Howie is an exception to our game. Well, you may instead tell us a job you would like to have in the future."

"I wanna drive a dumptruck!" Howie said proudly.

"That's a good aspiration for a strong young boy," Mr. Vann said. "Well? Any other takers?"

"I used to enjoy the idea of owning a retreat somewhere in the mountains, where there wasn't much else to do except fishing and boating," Perry said. "On particularly hectic days at the office, I still think it sounds like a good idea."

Laughter echoed around the table.

Tragg looked to Perry with what seemed to be both curiosity and slight accusation. "Oh? And tell us, Perry, would you be up there alone?"

"Yes," Della said, seeming quite interested in the answer. "Tell us."

Perry smiled at Della and glanced across the table to Tragg. "Well, I don't know, Tragg. But I doubt any venture would be enjoyable for long without a few friends."

"I hope you'd invite at least some of us," Della said.

"I would, Della, except for one small problem. If these jobs are what we'd be doing instead of what we're doing in reality, I might have never met any of you." Perry took a sip from his glass. "Actually, that sounds like quite a depressing world."

Della gave a firm nod. "It would be," she said.

"Hmm," Tragg mused. "A world where I wouldn't be chasing you and Paul down every few minutes for bending the law. It sounds tempting."

"You might not even be a policeman in such a world, Lieutenant," Perry said. "Are you still interested?"

Tragg stabbed a piece of meat. "I'll have to think about that," he said. "I've been on the force for a long time—over twenty-five years. That's a lot to give up."

"Did you always want to be a police officer?" Mr. Vann queried.

Tragg gazed into the distance as he considered the matter. "No," he said at last. "I believe my first desire was to be a cowboy." He smiled in mischief. "I grew up with Westerns."

"Cowboys were often part of law enforcement," Mr. Vann said.

"True," Tragg nodded. "In fact, I used to dream of catching villains with Marshal Matt Dillon."

"Then you simply chose a more contemporary form of that," Mr. Vann said.

"Yes," Tragg said. "I did at that."

Mr. Vann's gaze shifted to the younger man on Tragg's right. "What about you, Lieutenant Anderson? If you weren't a police officer, what do you think you would be doing instead?"

"I really don't know," Andy admitted. "I used to want to be an astronaut. My cousin Jimmy and I would play at that for hours with cardboard spaceships in the backyard. We drove our parents crazy." He chuckled. "I probably wouldn't have made a good astronaut, though. I think I do my best work with both feet planted firmly on the ground."

"Well, you never will know, will you," Mr. Vann said.

"No," Andy said. "I never will. But that's alright with me; I like the work I'm in."

"Are you still close to your cousin?" Mr. Vann wondered.

"Yes," Andy said in surprise. "As a matter of fact, he followed me into the police force."

"Another policeman in the family," Mr. Vann nodded in approval. "Your parents must be proud."

"All of our parents are," Andy agreed.

Mr. Vann took the gravy boat and added some more gravy to his stuffing. "That still leaves quite a few of you," he said. "Come on, don't wait for me to ask you. Volunteer your deepest, darkest secrets!"

"I know what Paul would like," Perry said with a mischievous smile.

"And I know what Burger would like," Paul returned. Hamilton looked to him with suspicious eyes.

"I know what Paul would like too," Della said.

"A dozen beautiful women," Perry finished.

Paul had to grin. "Hey, I'd settle for just one, if she'd stick with me even through our dates being interrupted by certain clients."

"Maybe you wouldn't need to worry about that, Paul," Perry said. "You might not be a private detective."

"Maybe not," Paul said. "But if I had the girl I'd probably be okay with just about any job."

"Really, Mr. Drake?" Mr. Vann said. "You can't think of anything specific you wanted to do?"

Paul shrugged. "Oh, when I was a kid I might've wanted to be an explorer for a while," he said. "I've learned since then that it's really not all that glamorous or exciting."

"And what about our illustrious district attorney?" Mr. Vann said.

"A governorship would suit him fine," Paul said, perhaps only half-teasing.

Hamilton's eyes went wide. But he quickly composed himself. "This might come as a shock to you, Paul," he said. "I don't think I've ever had political aspirations that high. I'm fine with sticking to the legal profession."

"Oh well, can't win them all," Paul said.

"And you, Ms. Germaine?" Mr. Vann looked to Mignon.

"I play a _vodun_ priestess in a nightclub floorshow," Mignon said. "I've often thought I would like to be one in reality."

"It's never too late," purred Mr. Vann. "Well, so that leaves Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and Ms. Street." He laced his fingers. "Really, Ms. Street, you can't think of anything else you wanted to do?"

"I did think of something," Della admitted. "I love children. I remember wanting to have a job that would let me be with and help them."

"A teacher, perhaps?" Mr. Vann said.

"Maybe," Della agreed. "A kindergarten teacher."

"Splendid. How about you two?" Mr. Vann looked to the Petersons.

Martha shrugged, glancing at Douglas. "I've thought it would be nice to be an interior decorator."

Douglas nodded. "You could get some of the old places around here fixed up.

"As for me, well, one of my childhood dreams was archaeology. Maybe that was a big part of why I was so nuts about finding this treasure, other than the obvious."

"What about you, Mr. Vann?" Perry spoke then. "You've had all of us telling other career options for ourselves, but you've held back on what you'd want."

Mr. Vann spread his hands. "Mr. Drake had an interesting idea," he said. "A governorship."

"You'd _want_ to be saddled with all that political baggage?" Paul exclaimed.

"Some people do," Mr. Vann said. "Although when I was a boy touring the governor's mansion, I believe I was more enchanted by the thought of living in that house than anything else." He smiled. "Children can go on such silly flights of fancy, you know. Living for the moment and never thinking about the far-reaching consequences."

"But you're thinking of them now," Perry finished.

"Yes, quite so." Mr. Vann wiped at his mouth with his napkin. "That was an excellent dinner. And now, if we're all finished, perhaps we should retire to the living room and I will get on with the business at hand."

"Yeah!" Howie cheered, leaping down from his chair.

"Howie!" Martha scolded, but she was smiling. "You can see where his mind is. He's been so anxious to learn more about this treasure."

"And I'm sure you and Mr. Peterson are anxious as well," Mr. Vann said as he rose. "Leave the dishes. We'll all help clear the table later."

"Well . . ." Martha considered the proposition for only a moment. "Yes, let's do that." Setting her napkin aside, she got up from the table. Everyone else began to follow suit.

The box was on the mantel, glowing, just as it had been left before. Mr. Vann went to it, lifting it with gentle yet firm hands. He studied the light, then the hieroglyphs, with equal levels of attention and fascination.

"Do you have any idea what's making it glow like that?" Douglas wanted to know.

"Offhand, not at all," Mr. Vann said. "The only way to determine that is to unlock it and see."

"There's no key!" Howie protested.

"And no keyhole," Perry remarked.

"I believe the writing on top may be the keyhole," Mr. Vann said, "and the translation, the key." He stepped further into the light.

"Can you translate it here?" Mignon's narrowed eyes showed her continuing suspicion of the man.

If he realized, he gave no indication. "I could try," he said slowly, "but the characters are faded from time. The box could stand a good cleaning too; it's obviously seen a great many places." He looked up again. "If it would be possible, I would like to take it with me to the museum. I'll clean it in my office and then make a translation of the characters."

Mignon frowned. She did not like the idea of the box leaving the premises. But Mr. Vann was right about it having had better days. "Would you let us discuss the matter before giving consent?" she asked, looking to the Petersons and silently pleading for them to agree.

"Of course," Mr. Vann said. "But you realize, naturally, that it's very unlikely you'll be able to keep this long-term. From my preliminary examination, it is a genuine Egyptian container. The Egyptian government may even want it back, especially if it is the Forbidden Box."

"We realize," Douglas said. "How about you inspect the rest of the treasure while we talk? It's up in the attic. Here, I'll show you." He made a move towards the stairs.

"I'm agreeable," Mr. Vann said. He replaced the box on the mantel and followed Douglas.

Martha sighed when they were gone. "I don't know what to think," she said. "I don't want to think badly of Mr. Vann, but I still am wondering if his story about Mr. Welles is true."

"Why don't you try calling Mr. Welles before making any decisions?" Perry suggested.

"That's a good idea," Martha said. "I'll do that right now." She hurried to the telephone on the end table and dialed.

Hamilton stepped closer to Perry. "What do you think, Perry?" he wondered.

"I'm not sure," Perry admitted. "Mr. Vann may be on the level. He seemed to be trying to put us all at ease at dinner. But at the same time, I can't help thinking there may have been more to that odd game than he would ever let on."

Hamilton shrugged. "It seemed harmless enough to me," he said.

"Perhaps," Perry said. "But I noticed you were the only one he didn't press for a response to his question. When you said you weren't interested in being governor, he let it go."

"Maybe he was just getting bored by then," Hamilton suggested.

"But he still wanted answers from Della, Mignon, and the Petersons," Perry said. "He was especially certain to get a reply from Della."

"That's true," Hamilton remembered. "But what could it mean? I don't see how there could really be any importance to a crazy dinner game. Or in the fact that I didn't give him much to go on."

"There likely isn't," Perry said. "However, I can't shake the feeling that he's had a reason for everything he's said and done so far."

"Now that wouldn't surprise me," Hamilton said. "But come on, Perry. He acted like he believed in that ancient Egyptian nonsense. It couldn't be real!"

"I agree it sounds preposterous," Perry said. "However, if he believes it, and wants it to be real, he's dangerous regardless of whether or not it's true."

"You've got a point there," Hamilton conceded. "Even though it can't be real, that doesn't mean I trust Mr. Vann's integrity."

"I don't think we should." Martha's voice sounded strange as she hung up the phone. "A police officer answered Mr. Welles' phone. He said they found him badly hurt in his car behind the museum. Someone struck him on the head. He's being taken to the hospital now."

Perry frowned deeply. "It's certainly strange and concerning, but it doesn't prove that Mr. Vann is responsible."

"It doesn't look good for him, either," Hamilton countered.

"I don't want him to take the box," Martha said.

When Douglas returned and was informed, he felt the same. "We'll just have to tell him we want to wait a bit," he determined.

Mr. Vann came down the stairs moments later, a handful of gold coins in his hand. "Well, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, I have excellent news," he said. "These coins are genuine, and very valuable."

"Wonderful," Douglas said. "Thank you. Now, about the box . . ."

"We'd rather not have it taken out of the house right now," Martha put in. "Maybe we could clean it ourselves?"

Mr. Vann paused only a moment before resuming his pace, going back to the mantel. "Oh no," he said. "There's a special method for cleaning it. Only those who have been trained know what to do. I hate to think of such an important piece of antiquity ruined by the hands of amateurs."

"Well, we'll just leave it alone then," said Martha. "Maybe you could come back tomorrow and bring the cleaning equipment with you?"

"I could," Mr. Vann said slowly. He ran a finger over the hieroglyphs. "Maybe I'll try to translate now, after all."

Mignon stiffened. "That's alright," she said. "You don't have to bother with it tonight."

"No, I insist. I should leave you with something." Mr. Vann held the box up to the light. Slowly and carefully, he began to read the characters in the Egyptian language. The box reacted; the lid began to rise.

Mignon ran over, frantic. "No! Stop!" She reached to slam the lid down. Instead a purple blast of energy shot out at her, striking her in the chest. She flew backwards with the sheer force, tumbling to the floor with a chair.

"Mignon!" Hamilton and Howie both cried at the same time. They ran to her, while Tragg and Andy rushed to Mr. Vann. The others hurried to help wherever they could.

In all the confusion no one noticed that the box's lid had rose the rest of the way. The dark purple energy burst forth, sweeping over the room. Everyone caught in its beam was thrown back against the walls.

Hamilton fell to the floor, smarting from the shock of being flung across the room. The last thing he heard before consciousness slipped out of his grasp was Howie's scream of utter terror.

xxxx

"Hamilton. Hamilton, are you alright?"

"Wake up, Mr. Burger! Are you sure he's alive, Mr. Mason?"

"Yes, Howie, he's alive. He's unconscious, as the rest of us were."

Hamilton groaned, forcing his eyes open. Perry and a tearful Howie were bending over him. Perry was gripping his shoulder. Seeing he was coming to, Howie brightened. "You're awake!" he exclaimed in joy.

"What happened?" Hamilton mumbled. It was a confused blur in his mind—a strange man, a glowing box, a purple blast. . . . "Mignon?" She had been hurt. And Howie had screamed. But he looked alright now, thankfully. . . .

"Mignon's on the couch," Perry said. "She's going to be fine."

"What about you two?" Hamilton persisted. "And the others?"

"We're all okay," Howie said. "Are you okay too?"

"Huh? . . . Yes, yes, I'm fine," Hamilton stammered.

Perry nodded. "Good." But though he was relieved that Hamilton was awake, he was troubled about something else.

"Something's wrong," Hamilton observed as he woke up more. "What is it?" He pushed himself off the floor. His arms wobbled, but he managed.

Perry sighed. "The box is gone," he said.

"And that guy, too!" Howie added. "He didn't take any of the coins or anything like that; he just wanted the box!"

"What?" Hamilton was in disbelief. Why would Mr. Vann pass up an obviously valuable treasure for an ancient nightlight?

. . . An ancient and deadly nightlight at that. He could not want it for any good purpose.

"Tragg called Robbery Division," Perry said. "They'll be here soon."

Hamilton nodded. With his bearings gathered, he stood up and stumbled to the couch. "Mignon?" He looked down at his friend with worry. She had been very close to the box when it had blasted her. Now she was very pale.

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. "Hamilton." She reached for his arm, latching onto his wrist. "Hamilton, something terrible is going to happen. Mr. Vann knows it; he took the box to be in control of its power."

Hamilton wanted to scoff at that. Ordinarily he would have. But he had witnessed a display of . . . _something._ He was not sure what, but it had definitely been dangerous. It had thrown everyone across the room and knocked them unconscious. Whether he wanted to believe in magic or not, it would be stupid to deny that much.

"Mignon, just rest," he said at last. "The police will find him _and_ the box."

Mignon sighed. "But will it be in time?"

She sounded so lost that Hamilton was chilled.

xxxx

The office was dark, lit only by candles and the purple glow from the box. Mr. Vann had not dared go back to the museum. He was not home, either, but in the home office of an associate. By the time the police ever found him here, his plan would be in effect. They would not be able to stop him.

"Yes," he purred. "That's it." He watched as the image of Vivalene, carved into an ancient tablet by a purple beam, was finished. "Now the next one." The beam set to work again, carving Perry's image this time. There was still a long way to go before the tablet would be complete, but it would be worth it. Every bit of it.

Mr. Vann's eyes gleamed in the eerie light. At long last this power was his. And he had no intention of giving it up. Nor did he want to share it.

Even with Vivalene.


	3. Unknown

**Chapter Three**

The night passed very tense for everyone. Neither Mr. Vann nor the box was recovered. By morning it was starting to seem unlikely that either one would reappear any time soon. The police would keep trying, of course, but they felt that both were likely far away. Mr. Vann had probably taken his treasure and skipped town. There was nothing for everyone else to do but to go about their normal business.

Hamilton sighed as he straightened a stack of papers on his desk. They had been forced to tell the police from Robbery Division that the missing container was dangerous. While none of them described what had come out of it as _magic,_ they had said it was a deadly type of energy, perhaps some kind of electricity. With all of them in agreement—and bearing the bruises and scrapes from being violently pitched—the robbery detail had no choice but to believe it, at least to some extent. They had been clearly uncomfortable and baffled when they had left.

Hamilton could not blame them in the least. He felt much the same. He did not want to even have to accept that what had happened had been real. But of course it had been. He would never forget the absolutely terrifying sensation of flying through the air or the pain of slamming into the wall. More than that, the image of Mignon being blasted back was seared in his mind.

He was furious. Once the police got hold of Mr. Vann, Hamilton intended to have a good, long confrontation with him. Without the box.

He was not the only one who was enraged. So was Douglas. "We never should have let that guy in our house," he had berated. But there had certainly not been enough evidence to disbelieve Mr. Vann's story at first, not until Mr. Welles had been found injured in his car. Both Martha and Mignon had stressed that point. There had really not been much they could have done different, aside from being unfriendly and kicking Mr. Vann out without anything other than a vague suspicion. Douglas seemed to feel that that was exactly what they should have done.

Mr. Welles, as it was, was in a coma. They could not ask him what had happened to him or who had been responsible. The doctors did not hold out a great deal of hope that he would awaken, either. His family, however, refused to give up. Tragg and Andy were busying themselves with that angle of the case, questioning museum workers and other possible witnesses. So far, no one had seen a thing, or so they claimed.

The intercom buzzed. Coming to attention, Hamilton pressed the button. "Yes? What is it?"

"You're due in court in fifteen minutes, Mr. Burger," Leon informed him.

"Thank you. I'll be right down," Hamilton assured him.

He reached for his briefcase. It was time to put all thoughts of unfriendly, vicious boxes and angering men out of his mind. Now he had to concentrate on Vivalene's trial. The defense didn't have much of a case, and they knew it. It shouldn't be long and Hamilton would have convictions—very well-deserved convictions. There were a lot of people hoping to see Vivalene and Flo appropriately punished for the sickening crimes they had committed.

The bright light came at him before he even had the chance to process its appearance. Expanding rapidly, it stretched the width of the entire room and soon reached him, all while an ominous humming sound in its midst grew louder and louder. Suddenly the light exploded in an even brighter burst. Without warning Hamilton was knocked onto his back, tumbling with the chair.

For a moment he lay dazed, blankly staring at the ceiling as his ears rang. Gradually the noise died and he blinked, coming back to himself. What was he doing on the floor? Where had that light come from? And how had it possessed the strength to knock him flat?

He reached for the edge of his desk, shakily pulling himself up. Could there have been an earthquake? It wouldn't explain the light, but it could account for his spill.

He pressed the intercom button. "Leon?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Was there an earthquake just now?"

Silence. "No, Mr. Burger." A pause. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. He sounded distracted, even to himself. "I'm fine." He glanced around the office. Nothing looked out of place, other than his chair. "I'll be out in a minute for court."

"What? Excuse me, Sir, but you just got out of court. You don't have any more cases for the day."

Hamilton stiffened in shock. That was not possible! He could not have just spent the day in court and forgotten it.

"It's not like you to pull a joke, Leon," he frowned. "This one isn't funny. You just told me I was to be in court for the Vivalene trial in fifteen minutes. Probably ten minutes now."

Another stretch of silence. "Mr. Burger, I don't know what you're talking about," Leon said. Now he sounded downright worried. "Who's Vivalene? I've never heard of her."

Hamilton's eyes widened. "Either you're pulling a joke or I'm going crazy," he exclaimed. "Who's Vivalene? The woman who tried to murder Lieutenant Anderson! Just a minute; I'll show you who Vivalene is."

He reached for the file on his desk. But as he opened it his jaw dropped. The top page was marked _Turner._ It only took a moment to see that everything in the folder pertained to a man named Turner who was being prosecuted for armed robbery and murder.

"Leon, have you been in my office?" he demanded.

"No, Sir," Leon gasped.

"Well, somebody has been!" Hamilton said. "And they've been messing with my files. The Vivalene file is gone!"

"I've been sitting right here, Mr. Burger. No one has come in or gone out. And I'm telling you, there is no Vivalene file. There couldn't be! There's no such woman. At least, your office isn't prosecuting her."

"Leon, stop talking nonsense!" Hamilton snapped. He cut off the connection.

A swift and frantic search of his desk was fruitless. The folder was utterly gone. Hamilton slumped back, staring at the scene before him in disbelief.

Maybe Leon had been hit by that light too. Maybe they had both lost a good deal of time and someone had taken the opportunity to come in and take the folder. It could have been one of Vivalene's cronies.

Well, Hamilton was still due in court. He would have to solve this mystery later. Grabbing his briefcase, he stepped into the outer office.

Leon looked up from his desk, visibly concerned. "Are you going home, Mr. Burger?" he asked.

"No, Leon," Hamilton retorted. "I'm going to court. Whatever's going on here, Vivalene's trial commences in less than ten minutes."

Leon got to his feet. "I know the Turner case has been taking a lot out of you, but now I'm worried!" He looked to Hamilton with wide eyes. "Five minutes after you get back, you start talking about a case and a woman I've never heard of!"

"Leon, I don't have time for this," Hamilton said. By now his patience was unraveling and his tone was clipped. "I'm not going to stand here arguing over something that shouldn't even be an issue. We'll talk more about this later."

Crossing the room, he flung open the door and nearly walked into a surprised Larry Germaine. The young assistant D.A. had been on his way down the hall. He turned to look at Hamilton in surprise at the near-collision. "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Burger," he apologized.

"Nevermind, Larry," Hamilton answered. "Where's your briefcase? We have to be in court!"

Larry stared at him. "Mr. Burger, we just got back from court. The defense asked for a continuance and the judge granted it. Don't tell me you don't remember!"

"Don't tell me _you_ don't!" Hamilton retorted. "And don't tell me we were prosecuting some guy named Turner. We're on the Vivalene case!"

He was met with the same blank look. "The what?"

"Oh, Larry, don't you start in on me too!" Hamilton cried. He hurried past. "I'll just go to court myself."

His heart gathered speed as he reached the elevator. Could he have been rendered unconscious after all? Maybe this was all some ghastly nightmare. Maybe in a few minutes he would wake up with Leon bending over him worriedly and demanding to know what had happened.

It had to be a nightmare. It could not be reality. It could _not_ be. It felt so real, but there was no explanation for how it was possible. Not unless he wanted to consider the missing box, which he really did not.

Or maybe it was that blast he had taken last night. Maybe now he was starting to hallucinate. He could have imagined the bright light a few minutes ago. Everything that had followed could have been a delusion. He could be in the middle of a delusion right now. Maybe he would wake up in the hospital.

That almost seemed preferable to the alternative.

Within a few moments he had reached the courtroom and was pushing open the heavy door. The room was empty save for one person. Calmly walking down from the bench, adorned in his judicial robes, was the crooked Judge Heyes. Hamilton's eyes went wide in shock.

Heyes turned, studying Hamilton with an unconcerned, matter-of-fact look. "Can I help you, Mr. Prosecutor?"

Hamilton snapped to attention. "You can tell me just what you're doing in here!" he said, storming across the room and through the gate. "You know you've been suspended pending an investigation into your office. Who let you in here?"

Heyes stared at him, clearly unsettled by the outburst. But then he struggled to gather his wits about him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Burger," he said. "And I don't know why you're here at all. There's nothing you can do here."

"Oh, I was doing plenty," Hamilton snarled, "both to Vivalene and to everyone in her employ. My office was gathering evidence against you at long last."

"You've been working the Turner case," Heyes answered without acknowledging any of Hamilton's declarations. He still looked shaken. When he spoke, it was almost as though he were trying to convince himself and not Hamilton of his words. "I heard it was given a continuance."

"I've never even heard of Turner," Hamilton shot back.

Heyes stood his ground. "Mr. Burger, I would advise you to leave before you get yourself into any trouble," he said. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Hamilton glared into his eyes. "You know, don't you," he breathed. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You know about Vivalene. You know there's no Turner."

There was only the slightest flicker in Heyes' eyes. "I'm serious, Mr. Prosecutor," he said. "I could send for my bodyguard and tell him that you've been feeling the strain lately. I could see to it that you're taken and examined by a qualified physician. You're acting like you need it."

A shadow appeared at the back of the courtroom. Hamilton recognized the tough man with folded arms. That was Heyes' bodyguard, alright. Heyes was not missing a trick. There was no way he could be doing this, and yet Hamilton was positive.

"Don't ask me how it's been done, Hamilton," Heyes said, spitting the name out in disgust as he stepped closer. "Just know that no one will believe you. At best they'll be concerned. At worst, well . . . let's just say you could be relieved of your office for insanity. Several counts of it."

Hamilton gripped his briefcase. "If this isn't a dream, it has to be some kind of hypnosis," he said. "Either you have me under a spell or everyone around me. Right now I'm supposed to be in court, trying Vivalene for murder and attempted murder. Instead there's no one here except you, and everyone's telling me I'm out of court for the day and that Vivalene doesn't exist."

"Listen to them, Mr. Prosecutor," Heyes said. He patted Hamilton on the shoulder before breezing past and going to his bodyguard at the door. They left the courtroom together.

Hamilton ran over, watching their departure down the hall. His thoughts were going a mile a minute. He had to find out what was going on. Heyes knew, but would not acknowledge it. Someone had to listen. Someone had to believe him.

He turned and hurried back into the hall. Perry would listen. Of all people, Perry would be highly concerned, probably more than almost anyone else, and want to help Hamilton reach the truth. Mignon would feel the same.

Hamilton pulled out his phone, walking towards an isolated corner as he dialed and it rang. "Come on," he muttered to himself. "Answer!"

At last there was a click. "Hello?"

Hamilton paused at the slight terseness to Perry's voice. Was he imagining it? "Hello, Perry," he greeted. "We've got a big problem. I know this is going to sound crazy, but Heyes has got back into his judgeship. And I can't get anyone other than him to remember that Vivalene exists!"

There was a long, uncomfortable hesitation. "Mr. Burger, I can't imagine what you're talking about." Now there was no mistaking the cool tone in Perry's voice. "You know as well as I do that Judge Heyes has been in his position for twelve years. He has no intention of getting out of it, so there could be no earthly reason for him to get back into it. And as for Vivalene, I'm surprised _you_ even remember she exists."

A cold chill stabbed Hamilton's body, even as he felt relief that Perry recalled Vivalene. "Perry, what are you saying?" he demanded. "And why so formal? You're acting as if we never . . ."

"Why are you acting so _in_formal?" Perry returned. "You would never dream of it. And I'm sorry, but I'm very busy. I have to go now; Vivalene has just informed me that my next client is here."

Hamilton had been about to retort when Perry's last statement stunned him out of it. "Vivalene's _there?_" he exclaimed. "Why?"

"I wouldn't expect you to remember something so _trivial,_ but in light of your questions I thought you might. Vivalene happens to be my secretary. Goodbye, Mr. Burger."

The sound of the dial tone was suddenly in Hamilton's ear. He drew the phone away, the action almost mechanical. If anyone had passed him, they would have seen he was sheet-white.

"What's happened?" Hamilton uttered, not caring as his voice echoed off the marble walls. "What's _happened?_"

Nothing was as it should be. Perry was all but hostile. He didn't find it strange about Heyes in the least. And Della had vanished. The one thing Hamilton had thought would never happen _had_ happened. Perry had a new secretary. Not only that, it was that _witch._

Hamilton shoved the phone in his pocket. He was going right to Perry's office. Maybe if he were there in person, things would possibly start to make sense.

But after that telephone conversation, he had to admit he doubted it.

xxxx

Perry frowned as he hung up the phone. He had not really indicated it to the district attorney, but he was troubled by their exchange. He had never before heard Mr. Burger address him so familiarly. And the things he had been going on about were so bizarre. Where would he get such ideas?

"What was that?"

He glanced up. Vivalene had entered his office and was perching on the edge of the desk. Her red hair tumbled over her shoulders as she clutched her notepad in her hands. She blinked big green eyes at him.

"That was the district attorney," Perry said. "I couldn't really make sense of what he was saying. He acted as though Judge Heyes wasn't supposed to still be on the bench. And he said that no one remembered you. He's the one who never gives you the time of day."

Vivalene's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. "The poor man," she said. "He must need medical help in a bad way."

"I've always thought he was sound," Perry said, "but after this I'm not sure of anything."

"You don't think there was anything to his rambling?" Vivalene hurried to interject.

Perry looked to her in surprise. "There couldn't be, of course," he said.

Vivalene smiled. "Of course."

Perry paused. "There was one other strange thing," he said. "Mr. Burger addressed me as though we're on friendly terms with each other."

Vivalene shrugged. "He must have some scheme in mind."

"That what bothers me," Perry said. "Heaven knows we are not and never have been friends. But he's an honest man. He could never be accused of anything crooked; it wouldn't hold any weight."

"Oh, you never know about people," Vivalene said. "I certainly wouldn't trust him."

Perry sighed. "You trust hardly anyone."

A smirk tugged at Vivalene's lips. "Too true," she mused. "But it's served me well."

Perry looked weary now. "Nevermind. You said there was a client?"

"He's waiting in my office," Vivalene said.

"Show him in," Perry requested.

Vivalene climbed off the desk. "Of course, darling," she said, crossing the room.

xxxx

Hamilton stared up at the Brent building as he parked in front and exited his car. "At least the building doesn't look any different," he said, only half-sarcastic.

The drive there had been both tense and confused. The more Hamilton thought about everything he was seeing, the more Mignon's despairing warning from last night echoed through his mind. She had been convinced that Mr. Vann was going to do something ill with that box. And Mr. Vann himself had said some very concerning things about the box, if it were taken seriously and not scoffed at. Particularly about how the box could be used to control people's lives.

Hamilton wanted to scoff. But if he were honest with himself, it felt like he and the others could be in some drastic game, pawns of Heyes and who knew whom else. What if Mr. Vann worked for Heyes? That was something Hamilton intended to look into. It was too strange that Heyes clearly remembered what was going on when no one else did. He had even told Hamilton that no one would believe him.

Hamilton hastened into the building and up to the ninth floor. Before long he was entering Perry's office.

He froze to see Vivalene sitting at the receptionist's desk. Gertie was nowhere in sight.

Vivalene looked up, meeting his gaze. "Hello," she purred. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I don't," Hamilton retorted. He came closer, searching Vivalene's eyes. Did she remember too? If she did, what would that mean? Were all of their current enemies in on this together?

"Mr. Mason is busy with a client right now," Vivalene said. "If you'd care to wait, I'm sure he'll be ready before too long."

Hamilton leaned over, placing his hands on the desk. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"Here?" Vivalene repeated vaguely.

"Here in this office. Here at this desk. Where's Della? And Gertie?" Hamilton straightened, walking briskly around the room for any sign of the missing women.

Vivalene leaned back, watching him. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said. "Mr. Mason mentioned you've been acting strangely."

"Oh, he did?" Hamilton turned to face her again. "And what did you say?"

"You could be cracking," Vivalene said. "On the other hand, who knows what sort of devious plot you've got in your sharp little mind." As she spoke, she stood and moved closer, ever closer, to him. By the end of her sentence, she was right in his face. She leaned in further, bringing her lips to his.

Hamilton immediately stepped back in disgust. "I don't know how you arranged such a cushy situation for yourself, or how you got out of jail, but I'm going to find out," he vowed. "And then you'll go right back to your cell."

Vivalene smirked at him. "Why, darling, I don't know whatever you're talking about," she said in a voice that indicated quite the opposite.

Hamilton would have demanded to know more if Perry's client had not stepped into the reception room right then. Vivalene turned her attention to him.

"Mr. Mason is going to represent me," the man said in obvious relief. "Thank you."

"Not at all," Vivalene purred.

Hamilton hurried past them, traveling through the empty middle office before reaching Perry's open door and stepping inside. "Perry, I have to talk to you," he announced. "Hear me out, please!"

Perry, still at his desk, clasped his hands and raised an eyebrow. "Since you've seen fit to barge in here like this, I should like to," he said. "But answer me one question first. Why have you suddenly started addressing me so familiarly?"

Hamilton swallowed hard, suddenly feeling awkward. "Well, that's the thing," he said at last. "The way I remember it, it's been that way for a long time. And it hasn't been one-sided."

Now Perry frowned. "Sit down," he said, gesturing to the nearest chair.

Hamilton complied, but shifted in discomfort. The last thing he thought he would ever be doing was to try to explain his friendship with Perry, _to_ Perry. Or to explain other things that Perry should know without question.

"Perry, the woman out front isn't your secretary," he said. "She's a hardened criminal. I'm prosecuting her for shooting Andy and deliberately killing her own henchman in the process. Your real secretary is Della Street. Right now, I don't know what's happened to her. Vivalene could have hurt her before taking her place, for all I'd know."

He spoke carefully on the last sentence. Even though Perry did not seem to find anything odd about Vivalene being his secretary, and very well might not remember Della, Hamilton could not bring himself to speak callously about Della's fate. He was honestly worried by this point. And if Perry did remember, he would be beyond devastated if Della had been hurt—or worse.

Perry paused, something passing through his eyes at the mention of the other woman. "Della Street," he mused aloud, as though trying to grasp knowledge that was just out of his reach. But then the moment was gone and he shook his head. "I don't know her." Hamilton's heart sank. "Vivalene has been my confidential secretary for years. You can't have been prosecuting her."

Hamilton leaned forward. "Perry, everything you remember right now is a lie!" he cried. "I don't understand what's happened. Everything was normal until this afternoon. Now, all of a sudden no one remembers the truth except me. And Heyes. I know he's behind this, somehow. He as much as admitted to me that he's involved. I think Vivalene knows, too."

"What if you're the one who's remembering lies?" Perry countered. "If you say everyone's forgotten this life you knew, that seems the more logical conclusion."

"Perry, it's the truth!" Hamilton protested. "If I just had some way of proving it to you . . . !"

Perry was silent for a moment as he digested Hamilton's words and his desperation. "I believe you believe it," he said. "You're very sincere in what you say and do. There isn't any knowing lie in your eyes.

"But I can't believe that what you believe is true. I'm sorry."

Hamilton rocked back, stunned and admittedly feeling a bit betrayed. "You think I'm crazy," he gasped.

"I think you're overworked," Perry said. "You should have Chamberlain or Sampson take over for you and get away for a while. You're in dire need of a long rest."

"What I need is to get to the bottom of what's happening here," Hamilton countered. "I'm not going to stand for it. You wouldn't either, even if you only had a shadow of a doubt that your memories might be false." He stared at the other lawyer. "What's happened to you, Perry? Have they really got their hooks in you so strong that you don't question this at all? Does it really feel right to you?"

"It's right. However . . ." Perry paused. "Show me some evidence to back up your story. Show me and I'll see how I feel then."

Hamilton sprang to his feet. "There isn't any evidence!" he said. "I don't know how to prove this to you."

Perry could not help a slight smile of amusement. "Then it seems that now the shoe is on the other foot, doesn't it."

"Huh?" Hamilton peered at him. "What do you mean?"

"You're the one without evidence as you try desperately to prove your point," Perry said. "Usually you have a great deal of evidence and I am the one trying to build a case out of very scant scraps."

Hamilton considered that. "Then maybe you should remember how many times you've pulled through and proven yourself right, even without a mountain of evidence," he said.

He turned to leave. There was little more he could do here. He was going to seek out the others. Would they remember? It was starting to look highly unlikely. Mignon would probably think there was some black magic loose, if she believed him at all. Paul . . . well, he hated to think how nuts Paul would think he was. Tragg too. Andy probably wouldn't know what to make of it. And Della . . . who knew where Della was at all, let alone what she would think.

He wished that Perry would call him back. He could feel the piercing blue eyes boring into his back as he walked to the door. But Perry was silent.

Only Perry himself knew of the slight prick he had felt when he had said he did not know Della. And only Perry knew that as Hamilton left, he had the strangest, faintest sensation that he was making a terrible mistake by letting Hamilton walk away.

"It's just a delusion," he muttered to himself. "It has to be."

But as he looked over Vivalene's notes from their latest client's interview, he could not feel at peace. Hamilton's words, and the accompanying pricks of feeling, had gotten under his skin. One question in particular would not leave him alone.

Who was Della Street?


	4. Maureen

**Notes: This chapter was highly delayed while I hurried to get my **_**West Side Story**_** Christmas oneshot finished. What's happening with Tragg is based on an idea of Crystal Rose's from our role-play story that heavily inspired this fic. Merry Christmas, everyone!**

**Chapter Four**

Hamilton was dazed and confused as he wandered down the corridor to Paul's office. Seeing Perry as he was now had left Hamilton flabbergasted. And Vivalene, watching him depart while talking on the phone, had given him such a cruel, hate-filled smirk that Hamilton knew without a shadow of a doubt that she knew what was going on.

What was this? A plot against him personally? No one remembered the case against Vivalene. All of Hamilton's own office probably thought he was insane by now. Perry did not remember that he and Hamilton were friends and had treated him with ice. And Della, who might have been kinder and encouraged Perry to listen, had disappeared. Vivalene, unforgiving and deadly, had replaced her.

Well, if this _wasn't_ a plot just to get revenge on him, Vivalene was certainly milking that angle for all it was worth. And Perry was probably in serious danger. How could it be otherwise, with Vivalene under his nose during working hours?

If only he could get Perry to listen! And before it was too late. In Perry's current mood it would probably take several miracles.

"You! Thanks for nothing!"

He jumped a mile at the sarcastic voice. He snapped back to the present, his eyes filled with questions. Paul was coming towards him, his expression filled with both anger and betrayal.

"What are you talking about?" Hamilton demanded. "What did I do?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Paul retorted. They stopped in the hall, facing each other. "When I got to work today, Tragg was there. He told me that you've recommended that my license be revoked. But what he said you did it for is something I never even did!"

Hamilton's jaw dropped. "Paul, I haven't done anything about your license," he said. "You're still in good standing. We both know that you sometimes bend the law—generally at Perry's directions—but I haven't heard about anything like that happening recently."

"That's not what Tragg said," Paul said. "And you know, he was acting kind of funny. I mean, aside from giving me these weird charges. In fact, everyone's been acting funny! My secretary backed Tragg up and insisted I'd done what you guys are accusing me of. But I guess if I tell you about that, you'll toss me in the loony bin next. Losing my license is bad enough without _that._"

Hamilton stared at him, contemplating and considering his words. Compared to how everyone else was behaving, Paul was acting . . . well, _normal. _Was it just his imagination? Why would Paul remember the truth?

"Paul," he said carefully, "do you remember Vivalene?"

"Do I?" Paul exclaimed. "Wait a minute. _You_ remember her?"

"Who is she to you?" Hamilton demanded.

"What? She's a _femme fatale! _A murderess! She tried to kill Andy!" Paul's eyes flashed with both confusion and anger.

Now Hamilton gazed at him in awe. "Paul, you still remember!" he exclaimed. "After everything I've seen today I can hardly believe it, but . . ."

"Hey! You remember too!" Paul realized, amazed. "How? Why?"

"I wish I knew," Hamilton said. "Maybe what we should be asking is why no one else does."

"Not even Perry?" Paul glanced over Hamilton's shoulder. "I was just going to his office to talk to him. I couldn't get through on the phone."

"You're wasting your time," Hamilton said in weariness. "Perry doesn't remember."

"Nothing?" Paul gasped. "What about Della?"

"Della's not there," Hamilton told him. "Vivalene's wormed her way in as Perry's secretary. She knows what's going on, but he doesn't know the difference. She probably stopped your call from going through."

Paul stared at him, not wanting to believe it. Everything he knew and depended on had been turned on its head for no apparent reason. "This is insane!" he burst out. "What's happened to everyone?" He threw his hands in the air.

"What were you doing right before everything changed?" Hamilton asked.

Paul blinked. "I was driving to work," he said.

"Did you see a bright flash of light?" Hamilton wanted to know.

"Oh boy, did I ever!" Paul declared. "I almost ran off the road because of it! But when it faded everything seemed normal—until I got to work, that is."

"I got knocked out of my chair," Hamilton frowned. "There was some kind of a sound with the light."

"A weird hum," Paul said. "Yeah, I heard that too. It kept getting louder and louder."

"Something about that light must be connected with what's happened to everyone," Hamilton said. "It was right after I picked myself up that I discovered everything was wrong."

"Maybe it's group hypnosis," Paul suggested.

"Maybe. I don't even know what to suggest," Hamilton said. "Everything sounds off-the-wall, but now I'm not sure that any explanation could be as off-the-wall as what we've been seeing." He pondered for a moment. "Look, I'll straighten things out with Tragg. You go on to Perry's office. Maybe you'll have better luck with him than I did. And who knows, maybe with two of us bringing him the same story, he'll have to take more stock in it."

Paul perked up. "You're on!" he said.

Hamilton turned to go, then paused. "By the way, what exactly were you accused of doing?"

Paul sighed. "Withholding evidence," he mumbled. "On a case that doesn't even exist."

"Unfortunately, in everyone else's minds, it does," Hamilton said. "What is it, the Turner case?"

Paul regarded him with surprise. "Yeah, that's right."

Hamilton nodded. "In the last couple of hours I've heard more about this guy Turner than I've ever wanted to know. Okay. We'll meet back here in fifteen minutes."

"I'll see if I can bring Perry with me," Paul determined.

Hamilton laughed dryly. "That would take a miracle," he said.

"And we probably won't get one," Paul said grudgingly. "But we can hope, at least."

They went their separate ways, each trying to make sense out of their bizarre situation.

xxxx

Vivalene did not look surprised when Paul barged into the outer office. She leaned back, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Well, so Perry's detective friend has come to play. Or would that be _former detective_ now?"

Paul stiffened at her presence and her words. It was one thing to be told Vivalene was here. It was quite another to see her, sitting in the chair that was Della's.

"How do you know about my career status?" he demanded. "In fact, how did you get in here at all? You're not supposed to be here! Perry would never let you stay if he knew!"

"Knew?" Vivalene spoke in vague, innocent terms. "Knew what? That I'm not supposed to be here?" She shrugged. "I doubt that. He wants me here."

"Only because he doesn't remember Della," Paul said. "What'd you do to him? And to Tragg?"

"You've been talking with the district attorney," Vivalene observed. "And sounding just as mad as he did. Perry won't listen to you."

"Well, I'm going to find that out from him, sister, not from you." Paul stormed towards Perry's office door. Just as he reached it, it flew open. Paul stopped short, briefly startled.

"Good afternoon, Paul," Perry greeted. "What's going on with you? I tried to call you and your secretary said that more than likely, you no longer have a job."

"I'm hoping that'll change in a few minutes," Paul said. "Perry, what's going on here? Why is Vivalene working for you? She's supposed to be in jail!"

Perry rocked back. "You're the second person to say that in less than twenty-four hours," he said, visibly stunned. "Maybe you'd better come inside."

"He's been babbling at me," Vivalene said. "And he has some very fascinating babbles."

"I'm sure he does," Perry said. "But I'd like to talk with him about them. Alone," he added.

"Well, of course," Vivalene shrugged. "Don't mind me."

Perry ushered Paul into his office and pulled the door shut after them. "Your secretary also said that it's the district attorney who saw to it that your job is on the line." He frowned. "I'm sorry, Paul. But I find it very curious that he's the other person who was telling me that Vivalene shouldn't be here."

"Perry, she shouldn't be!" Paul cried in exasperated despair. "We have to find out what happened to Della. Vivalene could have . . . well, _killed _her for all we know!"

Perry stiffened. "No," he said, his tone harsh. "No, Vivalene wouldn't have." Or did he really mean _No, Della couldn't be dead?_ But that would not make sense, not when Perry did not even have the faintest idea who Della was. Of course, he would not want anyone to be dead, but he would not have such a strong reaction over a stranger.

He walked back to his desk, troubled. Paul trailed after him. "Perry, if you'd just listen for two minutes!"

Perry sat down and clasped his hands, looking to Paul. "I listened to Mr. Burger," he said. "I was concerned when he was saying these things. I'm more concerned for it to be you, Paul."

"Why?" Paul countered. "There's more than one person telling it to you now. That should mean that you'd put some stock in it."

"I know," Perry said. "That's what concerns me." He shook his head. "It's impossible. It couldn't be true. The thought that everyone in town has forgotten the true way of things other than you and Mr. Burger . . ."

"And Vivalene," Paul said. "Don't forget Vivalene."

"And Judge Heyes too," Perry mused. "Mr. Burger said that he knew. He thinks there's some crooked plot and Judge Heyes is right in the thick of it."

"Judge Heyes?" Paul echoed. "Oh brother. If he's in on this along with Vivalene, we're really in trouble."

Perry's frown deepened. "You believe he's corrupt too?"

"We all knew he was!" Paul said. "Up to this afternoon, as far as I know, we all knew!"

Perry leaned back, mulling over this information. "I just can't believe it," he said. "What could cause something like this?"

"Oh, believe me, Perry, we're just as puzzled as you are," Paul said. "Probably more."

"Yes," Perry mused. "You probably are." He reached for a pad of paper. "You say this woman's name is Della Street?"

Paul shook his head. "You don't know how weird it sounds to hear you asking _that._" He sighed. "But yeah. That's her name."

Perry scribbled it down. "I believe I'll do some checking into this."

"I'd be happy to help you look," Paul said. "I want to find her too."

"It's not that I wouldn't be grateful for the help," Perry said. "But I don't want you to get into any more trouble than you're already in. The district attorney won't hesitate to prosecute you for these charges."

"He remembers the same stuff I do," Paul countered. "He doesn't even know that he was supposed to have charged me."

Perry stared at him. "I'm not sure who to be more worried for in this situation," he said.

"Me either," Paul said.

xxxx

Tragg was just leaving Paul's office when Hamilton approached. With his drawn expression and sunken eyes he looked tired, but Hamilton had no chance to comment or ask about that. When Tragg noticed him, he perked up.

"Oh, Mr. Burger," he greeted, pulling the door shut behind him. Under his other arm he carried several folders. "You'll be happy to hear that I've uncovered all the evidence we should need to see that Mr. Drake officially loses his license when you try him in court."

"I'm _not_ happy to hear it," Hamilton replied, "because I never pressed charges against him in the first place." He reached for the folders. "Tragg, these are trumped-up charges!"

Tragg's eyes widened. "Are you saying someone's trying to frame him?"

"I don't know what someone's trying to do," Hamilton said. "All I know is that none of this should even be happening. Tragg, we're supposed to be prosecuting Vivalene!"

"Mason's secretary?" Tragg shrugged. "Well, not that I wouldn't enjoy doing that, but what for?"

"She isn't Perry's secretary!" Hamilton cried in sheer desperation. "She tried to kill Andy!"

Tragg stared at him. "Mr. Burger, I'm worried. Have you been getting enough rest lately?"

"I'm fine," Hamilton said. "It's everyone else who's gone off the deep end. I . . ." He trailed off, the light overhead catching a glint on Tragg's hand. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Tragg followed Hamilton's gaze. "Is there something on my hand?"

"Your wedding ring," Hamilton realized. "Tragg, why are you wearing that?"

Now Tragg was defensive. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be wearing it?"

Hamilton rocked back. "No," he protested. "No, of course not. That's not what I meant. It's just that . . . well, you haven't worn it since Maureen died."

Tragg's eyes flamed in disbelief. "What are you talking about?" he roared.

Hamilton gaped. "She died years ago. You still grieve over her!"

"Maureen is alive and well!" Tragg shot back. "In fact, she just called me to see what I want for dinner tonight!" He thrust the folders at Hamilton. "If that's all, _Mr. Burger,_ I'll see you later. _Maybe._" He stormed past, more furious than Hamilton had ever seen him.

Hamilton gawked after him, shaken to the core. "Maureen is alive?" he whispered to no one. "She _can't_ be!What _is_ this place?"

xxxx

The last bell of the afternoon rang throughout the school. As though on cue, within moments the students were leaping to their feet in every class and barreling towards the doors.

Della's second-grade students were no different. But while most of them were completely occupied with thoughts of going home to sports or television or video games, a few lingered to say goodbye.

"Thank you for the lesson, Miss Street," the last boy told her. He was quiet and polite, and while he was interested in some of the same sorts of activities that his peers were, there was a certain seriousness about him that made Della wonder what he had seen in his short life.

"You're welcome, Howie," she smiled. "Is your mother coming to pick you up today?"

Howie shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "She said she might be busy fixing someone's house today and she might not be able to get away."

Della blinked in surprise and set aside the stack of papers to grade. "What about your father?"

"He's working late at the museum," Howie said. "He said he's expecting an important call from a man in Oregon. They went out on an archaeological dig a few months ago."

"Oh, I see," said Della. "Well, Howie, what are we going to do with you?" She came from around her desk. "Everyone's going home now."

"Maybe I could go home with you," Howie suggested.

Della was touched. "Maybe. But I don't think you'd find it very fun," she said with a gentle smile. "I live all alone. There aren't any toys or books or things for boys to do."

"Oh." Howie looked at Della's desk, then up at her. "I could bring some things and visit sometime. We could play dumptrucks!"

"I think that sounds like a wonderful idea," Della said.

Footsteps in the doorway caused them both to turn and look. A woman in a black suit was entering the room. Before she could say a word Howie was running to her. "Mignon!" he exclaimed.

She smiled at him. "Hello, Howie." Looking up at the amazed Della she said, "Miss Street, I am Mignon Germaine, Howie's godmother."

Della quickly snapped to her senses. "Ms. Germaine, I'm happy to meet you," she said. "Howie's talked a lot about you. I was just wondering whether to take Howie home myself. I wasn't sure if anyone would be there for him if I did."

Mignon nodded. "Mrs. Peterson called and told me she would be delayed. I'll be staying with Howie until either Mr. or Mrs. Peterson return."

"That's good to know." Della smiled at Howie. "Well, I guess this is goodbye for now, Howie. I'll see you tomorrow."

Howie grinned. "Yup! Goodbye, Miss Street."

"Thank you for your concern about Howie," Mignon said. "He's spoken a great deal about you as well." She turned to go. "Perhaps we'll see each other again sometime."

"I'd like that," Della said.

She began to gather her papers and purse to the sound of their fading footsteps. As she worked, she pondered to herself.

Mignon Germaine must have traveled some distance to pick Howie up. She lived in downtown Los Angeles, where she practiced _vodun_ as a priestess. It took almost thirty minutes to drive from there to the San Fernando Valley.

Della had to admit, she felt a slight twinge of disappointment to not have been able to visit more with Howie. Her job was her life. Outside of teaching, and the occasional date with another teacher, there was not much for her to do. Most evenings were spent alone in her house with the television or the stereo and stacks of papers to grade. It was lonely.

She paused when she reached for the morning paper she had brought to class with her. The cover story involved a large-scale case that the prominent defense attorney Perry Mason was working on. To the side of the story was a photograph of Mr. Mason looking seriously at a point just to the left of the camera.

She had felt a spark of something when she had caught a glimpse of the distinguished man's picture that morning. Bewildered, she had bought the paper because for some reason she could not bear to let it go. Looking at it again now, she felt the same sensation. There was something about Perry Mason and the idea of the trial that she could not quite place. It almost seemed as though she belonged there in the courtroom, taking notes at the defense's table.

But that was absolutely ridiculous. She was not an attorney's confidential secretary, nor had she ever been. It was just one of those strange things for which there was no definitive explanation, such as _deja vu_.

Stacking the newspaper on top of everything else, she lifted the small mountain and headed for the door.

Again she paused. Would it hurt anything if sometime she sought Mr. Mason out? Perhaps the feeling she had was there because she had the potential to be in a different career than she already was.

She smiled to herself, shaking her head. What a silly flight of fancy. She loved teaching those kids. No strange sensation was going to make her give that up, nor even consider it.

She resumed her pace, walking out the door and down the hall.

xxxx

Maureen was waiting when Lieutenant Tragg came through the door and into the house. She hurried to her husband, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Welcome home, Dear," she greeted. Seeing his storm-cloud expression, she paused. "Did you have a bad day at work?"

Tragg sighed, tossing his hat onto the rack in the corner. "Oh, it wasn't the greatest," he said, "but the most bizarre thing has nothing to do with the case I'm working at all. It's Hamilton Burger."

Maureen blinked. "What's wrong with him? You've been such good friends for so long."

"Yeah, I know." Tragg frowned. "I don't know what's wrong with him. Suddenly he doesn't seem to remember anything. I'm worried. He insisted he didn't recommend Paul Drake's license to be revoked."

"A lot of people could forget something like that," Maureen said. "But you said he doesn't seem to remember _anything._ Does that include us?"

Tragg hesitated. "He remembers us," he said carefully. He took off his coat, hanging it on the rack as well.

"But something is still wrong," Maureen finished.

Tragg turned to face her, his eyes troubled. "He thinks you're dead."

Maureen stared at him. "Oh, Arthur, you must be mistaken!" she exclaimed. "Maybe you misunderstood?"

"No." Tragg shook his head. "He was wondering why I was 'suddenly' wearing my wedding ring. He said I haven't worn it since you . . ." He trailed off. He did not even want to think about Maureen being dead. It gave him a horrible, icy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Now Maureen looked troubled as well. "He must be very ill," she said. "Has he been working hard lately?"

"More than usual," Tragg admitted. "This Turner case has been keeping him going around the clock." He headed down the hall to wash up for dinner. It was already in the oven and the smell was absolutely tantalizing.

"Then that must be it," Maureen said. She followed him to the bathroom and leaned on the doorframe, watching as he bent over the sink.

"I'm afraid I completely blew up at him when he started talking nonsense about you," Tragg said. After washing his hands he leaned down, splashing water in his face. Straightening, he reached for a towel. "I've had time to cool down since then. Now I just feel guilty. You're right; he wouldn't be acting like that if he wasn't sick."

"Then try to encourage him to take some time off and get some rest," Maureen said. "Hasn't he got dozens of assistants at his beck and call?"

"Quite a number, yes," Tragg said. He set the towel aside and walked out, going back towards the kitchen. "But he's plenty busy even with their help."

"Is he a workaholic?" Maureen returned, hurrying to keep alongside.

"I wouldn't say that," Tragg said. "He likes a good vacation as much as the next guy."

"Well, how about calling him after dinner and apologizing?" Maureen said. "You could suggest a vacation too."

"Maybe," Tragg said noncommittally. "Although it would probably be better to apologize in person."

"Go to his house then," Maureen said. They entered the kitchen.

Tragg shook his head. "I can't tonight," he said. "I must be working too hard myself. I've been exhausted all day. Halfway home, I was so worn-out I wasn't sure I was going to make it back without falling asleep."

"A good dinner will wake you up," Maureen said. She pushed him lightly into a chair. "Just sit here and I'll serve you."

"You could be right," Tragg said. "I'm feeling more awake already."

Maureen laughed. "Good! My special meatloaf recipe always does the trick."

And perhaps it did, but the effect was very temporary. Within thirty minutes of finishing dinner Tragg had wandered into the living room to relax and had soon fallen asleep in his favorite chair.

Maureen stood over him, watching him with care. "Yes, Arthur, that's right," she said softly. "Sleep. It's good for you."

Going upstairs, she unlocked a trunk in the bedroom and soon returned with an ominous, ancient box. Chanting quietly under her breath, she held the container in front of Tragg as the lid rose. Dark purple beams encircled his body, but he was too deeply in slumber to notice.

Maureen's face twisted in a wretched sneer. "And your life energy is good for our little project. You will do well fueling this dark spell until it's too late to reverse it. Of course, by then you'll sadly be dead, but oh well. There always have to be sacrifices to meet great ends."

The purple light, having taken its fill, withdrew and slipped back into the box. She closed the lid, straightening up.

"I'll have to thank Mrs. Tragg sometime for the use of her identity," she smirked. "Although I'm sure she'll want to tear me apart with her bare hands for what I'm doing to you, Arthur."

Her shoes clicking on the floor, she stepped out of the room.


	5. Principal

**Chapter Five**

Hamilton was waiting at the appointed spot in the hallway at the designated time, still gravely shaken over his encounter with Tragg. When Paul approached, alone, he noticed immediately.

"What happened?" he demanded. He wanted to ask if Hamilton had had any luck concerning his license, but he held his tongue. He had rarely ever seen the district attorney look so rattled.

Hamilton looked to him. "I think I just lost a friend by saying his wife is dead," he said.

"You lost me," Paul declared.

Hamilton stepped closer. "You _do _remember that Tragg's wife is dead," he said, the plea obvious in his voice.

"She's been dead for years!" Paul exclaimed. "Tragg's niece Lucy moved in with him soon after it happened because she didn't want him to have to live there alone."

The relief on Hamilton's face was more than obvious. "Paul . . ." He lowered his voice, glancing around to make certain they were alone. "Tragg was wearing his wedding ring. He blew up at me when I asked why. According to him, Maureen's alive. And somehow I doubt his niece is living with him now."

Paul gawked. "How could Tragg think Maureen's alive?" His eyes widened. "Don't tell me this place can bring back the dead too!"

"There's no way I'm going to believe that," Hamilton immediately inserted. "I still think we have to be under some form of hypnosis. Tragg could be conditioned to think his wife is alive. Maybe we'd even all see her. That wouldn't mean she was really here."

"I guess," Paul said. "But this place is getting creepier every time we turn around!"

Hamilton nodded, grim. "What kind of luck did you have with Perry?"

Paul sighed. "I'm not sure I made much progress," he admitted. "But he _does_ want to find out who Della is and where she is."

"Well, that's something," Hamilton said. "I want to find that out too."

"I checked the phone book on my way out," Paul said. "There's a D. Street listed, but the only thing with the name is a phone number. And if it's a cellphone, the prefix won't help any in figuring out what part of the city she lives in. I didn't recognize it." He shook his head. "I tried calling, but there was no answer."

"D. Street might not even be Della," Hamilton frowned. "Let's go back to my office and see what we can find out there."

Paul moved to follow him, then stopped. "Wait, you mean you _want_ me along?" he said in disbelief.

Hamilton gave him a look of exasperation. "We're the only ones who remember the truth, other than our enemies," he said. "We should stay together."

"Oh, I'm not contending that point," Paul said.

"Good." Hamilton started to walk towards the elevator. ". . . I _could_ turn it around and ask if you want to come along, when you'd be working with me," he remarked.

Paul kept pace alongside. "Touché," he said, chagrined. "I _would_ like to know how you made out about my license, though," he added after a moment.

"Actually, I'm not sure," Hamilton realized. "Nothing had been resolved when Tragg exploded. I'll see about dropping the charges back at the office."

"I hope so," Paul retorted.

xxxx

Leon's mouth fell open in shock when Hamilton entered the outer office with Paul in tow. "Mr. Burger?" he said, looking back and forth between the two men. "Sir?"

Hamilton did not miss a beat. "Leon, I've brought Mr. Drake here to talk about the charges against him," he said. It was not an entirely false story. "There's a good chance I'll be dropping all of them."

"_All_ of them, Sir?" Leon rose out of the chair. "But you were so adamant when you had Mr. Drake here before. You said you never wanted to see him in your office again!"

"I can feel the love," Paul muttered, sarcastic, from behind Hamilton.

Hamilton ignored him. "Some new evidence has come to light, Leon," he said. He opened the door to his private office. "We're not to be disturbed. Is that understood?"

"Of course, Sir." Leon hesitated. "You don't want me to take dictation?"

"Not now," Hamilton said. "Maybe later." Before Leon could ask more, Hamilton whisked Paul into the room and shut the door after them.

Paul shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he advanced over the carpet. "It's a really weird feeling, to have people tell you things about yourself that you know didn't happen," he commented.

He stopped to study a framed award hanging on the wall. _To Hamilton Burger, in commemoration of his years of service to our community._

Hamilton slid into the chair at his desk and lifted the lid on his laptop. "It's happened more times today than I'd care to remember," he said.

Paul went over, watching over Hamilton's shoulder as his fingers flew across the keypad. "Hey, do you think this version of Leon will cause trouble for us?" he wondered.

"He still works for me," Hamilton said. "He doesn't have the right to blab anything that goes on in the office."

"But what if he thinks you're nuts and he's worried about you?" Paul countered.

Hamilton paused. "Then we might have a problem," he conceded.

"That's what I thought," Paul groaned. He leaned forward. "Anything?"

"Well, Della's not in any of our court transcripts," Hamilton frowned, not pleased with Paul invading his personal space. "All traces of her ever having been Perry's secretary are gone. Look." He pointed at the screen as he scrolled down. "It's all Vivalene."

Paul straightened, slamming his hand on the desk. "That witch!" he cried. "What did she do with Della?"

"Just a minute." Hamilton reached for the telephone. "I'm going to try calling that number you found. What is it?"

Paul gave it to him. "And if no one answers again, then what? We're pretty much on our own here."

Hamilton dialed. "If you still have your license you should be able to do some investigating," he said.

"That's true," Paul said. "I could call the phone company and see what they'd tell me. What would you do?"

"There's something else bothering me," Hamilton said as the phone rang. "When I mentioned Vivalene having shot Andy, neither Perry nor Tragg reacted. Well, I mean, they didn't say anything about Andy. I don't know if that's any indication that they know Andy in this place or not."

"I got the same reaction," Paul said. "Maybe they know him and they're just not friendly here."

". . . Or maybe Andy isn't a police officer," Hamilton mused. He hung up the phone in irritation. "There's still no answer."

"That figures," Paul sighed. As Hamilton's first statement processed he jerked up. "Hey, wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "Remember when Vann had us play that crazy game at dinner?"

Hamilton nodded. "I was thinking about that. Everyone suggested other occupations for themselves. The only thing is, so far not everyone's followed those suggestions. Other than Della, everyone still seems to have the same jobs they had before. It's just their relationships with everyone else that have changed."

"But it could mean Della's a schoolteacher somewhere," Paul said. "That's the other job she finally picked for herself."

"It might also mean Andy's up in space." Hamilton looked ill at the thought. "It's something to try, though." He turned back to the computer. "Start looking for any teachers named Della Street."

"I'm on it." Paul headed for the door. "What are you going to do?"

Hamilton got up, closing the laptop. "I'm going to talk with Mignon. Larry still works here, so hopefully Mignon is around too."

Paul nodded. "Well, good luck," he said. "To both of us."

xxxx

Vivalene was leaning back at the desk she had claimed, casually running a nail file over her substantial fingernails, when Perry opened the door of his office and stepped out. She paused, looking up. "Why, Mr. Mason," she purred. "What is it? May I help you with anything?"

Perry frowned, debating with himself. At last he said, "Tell me honestly. Who is Della Street?"

Vivalene's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. "I've never heard of her. Who is she supposed to be? A new client?"

Perry's visage only darkened. He had seen that flicker. "I've been told, by two independent parties who are most certainly not closely associated with each other, that Della Street is supposed to be my secretary."

Vivalene rocked back, blinking in surprise. Once she had digested the information she threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, Mr. Mason, I didn't realize you could so easily come to believe nonsense. Hamilton Burger is trying to trick you. And maybe Paul Drake is sore because he's finally losing his license due to you."

"But how do they both know the same story to tell?" Perry returned. "_That_ doesn't make sense!"

Vivalene stood and came around the desk, slinking towards him. "Don't tell me you actually believe them," she pouted. "Perry, we've had so many good years together. Surely you're not going to throw all of that away?"

Perry gave her a hard look. But at last he sighed, turning away as he massaged his eyes. "You're right," he consented. "I don't know what came over me."

"Then you won't talk about this Della Street anymore?" Vivalene pressed, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"No," Perry said. A strange guilt stabbed his heart. His brow furrowing, he turned to go back in his office. "Get on those memos we talked about. I'll need them bright and early tomorrow."

"Of course," Vivalene smiled.

Perry barricaded himself in his office. Crossing to his desk, he pondered on the bewildering circumstances before him.

Nothing added up. Vivalene was right, that all of their years together could not be a lie. There was no way Perry could remember such an elaborate fabrication as the truth.

But Hamilton Burger would not try to trick him like this. Neither would Paul. They were both mature adults who would never stoop to such _im_mature behavior.

Most of all, there were the odd feelings Perry felt in connection with Della being mentioned. She was the only part of these outlandish stories that rang some sort of truth. No matter how things did not connect, Perry was forced to acknowledge that.

Obviously he could not depend on Vivalene for help. She was a jealous sort, so that could be part of it. She never had liked it when Perry's attention drifted elsewhere. Sometimes he wondered why she was still willing to serve as his secretary.

He got up, heading for the back door. He would slip out without her knowledge. Somehow he had to find this Della woman. Maybe then and only then would he be able to get to the bottom of what was going on here.

xxxx

After seeing just about everything turned on its head, it was both a surprise and a relief to find Mignon's old car parked in the driveway of what Hamilton knew to be her home. But he was not about to let his guard down yet. He remained tense as he went up to the porch and knocked on the door.

The strong scent of incense greeted him when Mignon opened the door, dressed in black as usual. She regarded him with a slightly quirked brow. "Have you come to apologize, Mr. Burger?" was her greeting.

Hamilton's jaw dropped. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. "What is it I'm supposed to have done now?"

Mignon remained where she was, making no move to open the door enough to let him in. "So you've forgotten? I suppose that shouldn't surprise me. You never realize when you've done something wrong."

"Now just a minute!" Hamilton waved his forefinger at her. "That isn't true, but Mignon, I have something very important to discuss with you. It could explain whatever it is you think I've done. _Please . . ._" He regarded her with agonized eyes. "Hear me out."

For a moment Mignon studied him, unmoved. Then, slowly, she stepped back and drew the door open farther. "Very well," she said. "Come in. But try to keep it brief. You caught me in the middle of worship."

Hamilton stepped into the modestly furnished living room, waiting for Mignon to close the door before trying to begin his explanation. "Mignon . . ." He hesitated, feeling ridiculous for what he was about to ask. "Have you ever heard of something called the Forbidden Box? It's supposedly from Egypt."

Mignon shook her head. "I've never heard of it."

Hamilton started to pace. "What would you say if I told you your godson's family had this box and someone stole it? And that the next day nothing was the way it was supposed to be?"

"How do you mean?" Mignon sounded guarded.

"Well . . ." Hamilton stopped pacing. "No one remembers their lives the way they were. They think other things are true that actually aren't." He looked into Mignon's dark eyes. "Some of them aren't even friends any more. Either they think it never was the case or they've had a bad falling out."

Mignon turned away. "If it wasn't that this would be completely out-of-character for you, I would say that you are simply trying to get back into my good graces." She looked back. "As it is, it almost sounds as though you are blaming this missing box for everything being upside-down. And that is also not like you."

"I know it isn't." Hamilton ran a hand through his hair. "Believe me, Mignon, I'm not saying the box is responsible. That just sounds crazy. But the facts are that the Petersons had some kind of a box last night. Someone stole it, after using some kind of freak energy inside it to knock all of us unconscious. And today I was knocked flat by a weird white light. When I got up, no one remembered what I remember about our lives—except Paul Drake. He also saw this light, by the way. I know it sounds insane, but I thought if anyone would believe me you would, and . . ."

Mignon turned fully around to face him. ". . . I believe you," she said.

Ready to protest what he figured would be a rejection, Hamilton instead stopped and stared. "You . . . you do?" he stammered in amazement.

Mignon nodded. "You would never come to me with such stories unless you were absolutely desperate. It took a great deal of humility for you to tell me this.

"We'll have to move quickly. Do you know who stole this box?"

"A man named Vann," Hamilton said. "I think he's working with Judge Heyes and a woman called Vivalene. They're both crooked, but no one remembers that any more. I've talked to both Heyes and Vivalene and they've all but said that they know the truth." He shook his head. "Vivalene was especially getting a kick out of taunting me about it."

Mignon walked towards the hallway. "I will try to find out what I can about not only the Forbidden Box, but phenomenon such as what you've described," she said.

Hamilton followed her. "You probably won't be able to learn anything about the box," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised but what they've erased it everywhere, even in the history books."

"It wouldn't surprise me, either," Mignon said with a nod. "Which is why I'll focus more on what it may have caused. I might be able to discover how to reverse it."

"Thank you, Mignon." Hamilton could not hide his immense relief. They had another ally. "But please be careful!" he implored. "If they find out you're investigating . . ."

"They won't find out," Mignon interrupted, calmly. "I'll start my investigation right here at home. I have an extensive library of books on the occult." She paused at the doorway of what was presumably the library, resting her hand on the doorframe. "Do you need to be anywhere in particular right now?"

"No," Hamilton said with a slight hesitation. "No, I don't think so."

"Then help me look," Mignon said. "You can tell me more about this world we're supposed to be living in."

Hamilton blinked. Before he could reply, Mignon had already vanished into the library. Shaking his head, he trailed after her.

"What about your worship?" he asked.

"Under the circumstances, I'm sure a postponement would be understood," Mignon called over her shoulder.

xxxx

Della glanced in dismay at the clock across the street as she hurried through the parking lot of the school with her stack of papers. She should have been here some time ago, but she had been pulled into a last-minute faculty meeting on her way out. Now it was almost dark. She would be up late tonight. And she had hoped she might get a good start on her Christmas shopping. Unless she went right now she would have to reschedule for tomorrow.

Oh well, that might be better anyway.

She was almost at her car when a familiar voice called from behind her.

"Miss Street!"

She turned, struggling not to drop any of her load. "Why, Principal Anderson," she greeted in surprise. "I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Trying to get away without me noticing, eh?" Mr. Anderson came up to her, reaching to steady the sliding papers. "Here, I'll help you with this."

"Thank you," Della said in relief. But his sudden frown as he glanced at the newspaper bewildered her. "What is it?" she asked.

"Oh." Mr. Anderson took the stack from her, leaving her free to unlock the car. "I'm sorry, I was just noticing the headlining story about that lawyer Perry Mason."

Della reached in her purse for her keys. "It was certainly interesting reading," she said. "He always seems to manage to crack his cases and prove his clients innocent."

"My cousin Jimmy has worked on some of those cases," Mr. Anderson said. "He says it's frustrating yet fascinating to see how Mr. Mason works."

Finally locating the correct key, Della drew it out and turned it in the lock. "Mr. Anderson . . ." But she trailed off. Was she actually going to ask the question that had passed through her mind? It was ridiculous. She did not want to give the impression that she was overly interested. Yet the query leaped from her mouth before she had quite given it permission. "You haven't ever met him, have you?"

Mr. Anderson rocked back. "Perry Mason?" he said in surprise. "No. No, I can't say that I have." He handed her the papers as she reached for them.

Della nodded. "I didn't think so, unless maybe your cousin introduced you." She placed the stack in the passenger seat.

"I'm afraid not. He doesn't tend to socialize with the defense attorneys." Mr. Anderson leaned on the top of the car with one arm. "Why are you so interested, all of a sudden?"

Della straightened, embarrassed now. Her cheeks were probably flushed. "I . . . I'm really not," she said. "I just wondered."

"I see." Mr. Anderson pushed away from the car. "Well, I guess I should let you go. I just noticed you carrying that skyscraper and thought you could use a hand."

Della smiled. "I did. Thank you, Principal." She slid into the car. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Miss Street." Mr. Anderson shut the door for her and stepped back, watching her back out of the parking space.

"Hey, wait!"

He jumped a mile. Whirling around, he caught sight of an athletic man with graying hair running after the departing car, waving his hand wildly in the air.

Frowning, Mr. Anderson started to walk over. "Can I help you?"

Now it was the stranger jumping a mile. "Andy?" he cried in disbelief. He spun around, his eyes wide. "It _is_ you! What are you doing _here?_"

Andy tensed. "You have the advantage of me, Sir," he said. "I've never seen you before, that I can recall."

The other man let out an exasperated breath. "Of course." His tone was grudging. "I'm Paul Drake, private detective."

Andy nodded, his eyes devoid of recognition. "Why do you think you know me?"

"Because . . ." Paul trailed off. "Nevermind. Was that Della Street who left just now?"

"She's one of my teachers," Andy said, still on guard.

"_Your_ teachers?" Paul echoed.

"I'm the principal here." Andy gestured at the school.

Paul stared at him. "Now this is one place I never expected to find you," he said.

"And why is that?" Andy laid one hand over the other. "You still haven't told me why you think you know me. I have a mind to call the police if you continue to refuse."

"And you'll probably have a mind to call the funny farm if I don't refuse," Paul sighed. "What if I told you that you're not a principal, you're really a cop, and that this is some weird alternate reality we've been thrown in that isn't even real?"

Andy stared at him. "I'd say you're insane," he said. "Or trying to pull a very unfunny joke. Either way, I don't appreciate it. And I hope you're not planning to harass Miss Street with your nonsense."

"I need to talk to her!" Paul protested. "It's important."

"Oh? And what, exactly, do you say is your connection with her?"

"She's Perry Mason's confidential secretary," Paul said. "We both help out with his cases." He braced himself for Andy pulling out his phone and dialing the little men in white jackets.

Instead Andy's eyes widened. ". . . That's strange," he breathed. It surely couldn't mean anything; there was no way. But right after Della had been talking about Perry Mason . . . it was an odd coincidence.

"What are you talking about?" Paul frowned. "What's strange?"

Andy opened his mouth, then closed it. "Nothing," he said. "Nevermind. Just leave, please."

Paul stepped closer. "Did Della say anything about Perry Mason?" he demanded. Was it possible that she remembered too? Had she said something about it to Andy?

Andy stiffened. "I said nevermind!" He spun around again. "And I asked you to leave. I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing and harassment if you stay here!" His eyes narrowed. "And if I hear that you've been bothering Miss Street, I'll . . ."

"Forget it," Paul snapped. "I'm out of here."

He stalked back to his car and got in. As he drove off, his thoughts were spinning.

Andy was no longer the friendly man he knew. It was Paul's first experience with being treated as a total stranger; the others had known him, at least in some manner. But, he supposed with a sigh, in Andy's position now he might react exactly the same way. He had to commend the guy for wanting to keep Della safe from a presumed nutcase.

And now he knew where Della was at least some of the time. Maybe she lived in this area. He could cruise around and look in driveways for the car he had seen.

He had something to report, anyway. He would call Burger on his hands-free phone.

It rang a couple of times before he answered. "Hello?" He sounded occupied.

"I found Della," Paul announced. "She teaches school in the San Fernando Valley."

"I was just going to call and tell you that," Hamilton said. "I'm with Mignon. She says Della teaches Howie Peterson's second-grade class."

"She's feeling chatty!" Paul declared. "I couldn't get much out of Andy."

"You found _him?_" Hamilton exclaimed.

"Yeah; he's the principal. Right now I'm looking for Della's car. Ask Mignon if she knows Della's address, will you?"

"Just a minute." There was a muffled pause while Hamilton spoke with Mignon. "It's 1223 Sycamore," he reported then.

"Great. Thanks," Paul said. "Why is she being so helpful? Does she remember, by any chance?"

"No, but she believes we're under a black magic spell," Hamilton said.

"And we might only have a certain amount of time to break it before it becomes permanent," came Mignon's voice in the background. "My research so far shows that many spells in general are not binding at first."

"It could end up permanent?" Paul howled. "We might be stuck in this creepy place forever?"

He could not see it, but Hamilton had winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. "We're not going to be," he vowed. "I don't care what it takes; we're going to get home."

"For once, I really hope you're right," Paul said.

xxxx

A telephone rang in a darkened room. A ringed hand reached and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"I'm afraid we have trouble," said the voice on the other end. "Everyone is looking for Della Street. Even Perry Mason's getting into the act."

"He _can't_ find her! If they meet, everything could fall apart. The spell changed almost everything else, but it couldn't completely mask their bond!" A curse. "I don't understand what happened, you fool! Why do Hamilton Burger and Paul Drake remember the truth?"

"I don't know. I'm still trying to uncover that."

"Well, don't forget we don't have much time. If they unravel things before Tragg is dead, they might find out how to set things back the way they were."

"I'm aware of that. How long do you think it will take?"

"I've been draining him whenever he falls asleep exhausted from the energy he's already missing. I shouldn't think it would take longer than a few days at the most."

"He doesn't suspect anything, does he?"

"Of course not! He thinks I'm his wife, which is how it's supposed to go. And he won't know different until I take the last of his life energy. I want him to wake up and look at me with that horrified realization that he's been used and is dying because of it."

"You're very cruel."

"That's how I've always got ahead."

"It was also very cruel of you to set things up so everyone seems to have a problem with Hamilton Burger."

"I hate the man. I want to see him suffer more than any of the rest of them. If it weren't for how he and Drake are throwing a wrench into our plans, I would find it delicious irony that he remembers. It makes the blows so much more profound.

"Now I'm going to stop Perry. You work on your end of things."

Without waiting for a reply the receiver was replaced. A deadly smirk glinted in the oncoming darkness.

Perry Mason would never make it to Della Street's house. He would have a terrible accident first.


	6. Apart

**Chapter Six**

Perry was soon out of the Brent building and into the parking garage. Instead of having his car brought up he had decided to go in after it. He did not want Vivalene to know he was leaving.

He had found the same phone number that Paul had discovered earlier. Once he was safe in his car he would try calling it. If there was no answer he would do some further investigating on his own to determine the identity of the person behind it. One way or another he was going to find Della Street.

He frowned as he located his convertible. It almost looked like a shadow diving behind the nearest pillar and pressing himself against it. Why would someone be hiding?

"Who's here?" Perry called. His voice echoed eerily off the walls. No one answered.

At last Perry unlocked the car door and eased himself inside. It was strange, but surely not connected with him. He had other things to worry about.

He brought up the top on the car. He had come out here for privacy. If someone was lurking around, he did not particularly want them to hear the conversation.

When the canvas was in place he took out his phone and dialed the number of D. Street. One ring, two, three. . . . He sighed. She must not be home. And it might not even be her at all.

What kind of foolish wild goose chase was he going on, anyway? This was not like him. Of course he often played on hunches and feelings in court cases, but there was always some reason to think there was something to them. There was no reason to think such a thing now. He was letting himself be duped by the stories Mr. Burger and Paul had told him.

And yet it came back to the fact that they would not lie to him. He could not ignore that. Nor could he ignore the insistent stirring where Miss Della Street was concerned. He had already been through this argument with himself and had arrived at the same conclusion.

_Click._ "Hello?"

Perry froze. He had not expected anyone to answer. He had been about to hang up. Now he was hearing a woman's voice, deep and mature and currently out of breath. She must have run to the phone, perhaps just as she got back home.

The voice was unfamiliar to him. Or was it? Was some part of his soul awakening in recognition?

He cleared his throat. "Is this Della Street?"

A surprised pause. "Why, yes. Who's this?"

"Perry Mason," Perry answered.

She gasped. "The lawyer?"

"Indeed. I'm sorry if I've startled you. You must find it strange, for Perry Mason the lawyer to call you out of the blue."

"It is strange, yes. How can I help you, Mr. Mason?"

Perry considered the question. "Well, to be honest, I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "I know how this is going to sound, but I don't know how to ask except to be frank. Have we ever met before?"

Now there was a long, uncomfortable pause. "I . . . I can't imagine . . . no. No, Mr. Mason, we haven't met before. I would remember."

"Of course. So would I. You sound like the kind of girl no one would forget." Perry paused again. "This is highly unorthodox, but I would like to meet with you. In a public setting, naturally," he quickly added. He did not want her to feel like there was anything shady about the proposal. But then again, how could she not?

Della sounded awkward when she replied. "I don't understand," she said. A bit of anger slipped into her voice. "This isn't a joke, is it? I was just talking with Mr. Anderson about Mr. Mason in the news."

"No, no, it's not a joke," Perry said. "I don't even know your Mr. Anderson. I'm sorry, I know this sounds ludicrous." He shifted. He was digging himself deeper into a hole. "You could bring a chaperone if you like. And you may suggest the location."

Another hesitation. ". . . Alright," she said at last. "I'll bring Mr. Anderson. We can meet this evening at the Club Caribe. Do you know it?"

"Yes, quite well. Shall we say seven?"

"I'll be there," said Della. "Thank you, Mr. Mason. Although I still don't understand why you want to meet me."

"I'm afraid I don't, either," Perry said, apologetic. "And I'm afraid if I try to explain it over the phone you won't agree to meet with me at all."

"Now you're being more than cryptic, Mr. Mason. How can I say No? I'll see you at seven."

"Good. Goodbye, Miss Street. I look forward to our meeting."

"Goodbye, Mr. Mason. I'm looking forward to learning what this is all about."

Perry was unaware of the slight smile he bore as he drew the phone away from his ear. Tonight he would meet Della Street. That, and only that, was the thought occupying his mind. It was only when he started the car and began to pull out of the parking lot that the reason for meeting Della Street came back to him. Maybe he would be able to solve this bizarre mystery and put such inane thoughts out of his head. That was why he had decided to seek her out in the first place.

So why was it that after talking with her it seemed a secondary reason?

He sighed, shaking his head.

He glanced at the clock. There was enough time for him to go home and freshen up before their meeting. He would head in that direction.

His car had other ideas. As he started to ease it past the gate and down the sloping hill of the parking garage exit it gathered speed without his permission. Pressing on the brake pedal did not do the slightest bit of good.

His eyes widened in disbelieving shock. The shadow from the garage. . . . Could that person have been tampering with his car?

He had no chance to think further on it. He was going to strike one of several cars crossing his path. In desperation he swerved to the right. The tires squealed in protest. And the horrible sound of metal crunching into metal filled the evening.

xxxx

Della's hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver. This was too much all in one day. Why did Perry Mason continue to enter her life? She had kept thinking about him after seeing that paper. Then Mr. Anderson had brought him up. And then to top it off, he had called her as she walked through the door. Now she had somehow been talked into a dinner date.

But was the man really Perry Mason? Suppose a teacher had overheard her talking with Mr. Anderson and had decided to play a practical joke on her?

She frowned to herself. She did not know why such jokes had been branded _practical._ There was nothing practical about them, as far as she could tell. And if she was being played for a fool, she would be both furious and mortified.

And oh dear, what had she been thinking? She had volunteered Mr. Anderson to go with her. What if he had other plans?

Well, she _could_ go by herself. The Club Caribe was always busy. There was not much danger of anything happening to her there. Maybe she had volunteered Mr. Anderson's chaperoning services because she had wanted Mr. Mason, or whoever that had been on the phone, to think she had someone already and would not be falling head-over-heels for him, the famous and dashing lawyer.

. . . Except why in the world would she think that was important?

Sighing, she sat down on the couch and grabbed the folder she had brought from the late faculty meeting. It had the names and numbers of all staff members on the top page. And she did not remember Mr. Anderson's number offhand. Soon locating it, she dialed.

"Hello?"

She stayed tense, gripping the folder on her lap as she closed it. "Mr. Anderson? This is Miss Street."

"Oh, Miss Street. What can I do for you?" He sounded genuinely interested. "I'm sorry about that last-minute meeting. It was a surprise on me, too. I hope it didn't inconvenience you too badly."

"Oh no," Della assured him. "This doesn't have anything to do with that." She paused. "Mr. Anderson, I've just done a terrible thing."

A gentle chuckle. "I doubt you're capable of doing something too terrible, Miss Street. But what is it?"

Della bit her lip. "Well . . . I can't imagine what you'll think of how this sounds, Sir, but just as I was coming in the door my telephone was ringing. I rushed over to answer it. The man on the phone identified himself as Perry Mason."

Mr. Anderson's mood changed altogether. _"What?"_

Della cringed. "I couldn't believe it myself," she said. "And he was very strange on the phone. He said he wanted to meet me in a public location. He also said I could bring a chaperone. He acted very anxious to meet me. So I . . . I told him I'd meet him at the Club Caribe at seven and . . . bring you as a chaperone."

There was a long silence. "You're actually going to meet him?" Mr. Anderson cried then. "It can't possibly be for real. You've never met Perry Mason. He's never met you. He doesn't even know you exist!"

"I know," Della said. "But . . . I can't explain it, Mr. Anderson. I feel like I need to meet with him and find out what he wants. I've felt like I needed to find him since this morning when I picked up that newspaper."

"Miss Street." The worry in the principal's voice was obvious now. "Right after you drove away tonight, a man I've never seen before tried to catch up with you. He said his name was Paul Drake, a detective, and insisted he knew you. This man could have called you posing as Perry Mason."

Della's breath caught in her throat. ". . . Did he say why he thought he knew me?" she asked. Another silence met her ears. "Mr. Anderson, I have a right to know, whatever he said!"

Mr. Anderson let out a shaking breath. "He said you were Perry Mason's confidential secretary and that both of you helped on his cases."

The phone slipped from Della's fingers. She had told no one of her silly feelings from earlier, that she belonged in court taking notes at the defense's table. Her _supposed_ silly feelings. This was far too much coincidence for her liking. Now there was no doubt about it at all—she _had_ to meet Mr. Mason, with or without a chaperone.

"Miss Street? Miss Street, are you still there?"

Della shook herself back to the present and snatched up the phone. "Yes, Mr. Anderson," she said, somehow miraculously keeping her voice steady. "I . . . I'm sorry about volunteering you to come with me. I know it was a terrible thing to do without consulting you first. If you can't make it I understand. But I have to meet that man, whether he's Perry Mason or Paul Drake or someone else."

"No," Mr. Anderson returned. "You did the right thing, Miss Street. Of course I'll come with you, if you feel you have to do this."

"I do," Della said.

"Then I'll pick you in thirty minutes. Will that be enough time?"

"Yes, thank you." Della said goodbye and hung up.

Slowly she rose from the couch. What was she to make of this? If there was anything to it, what was it? She had never had an accident or an illness that had resulted in amnesia. There was not some part of her life that she had forgotten. And yet the life whispered in her feelings and said outright by that detective was something that she had either forgotten or had never had.

The knock on the door made her leap a mile. With a sharp turn she crossed the room to the door. "Who's there?" she demanded. Looking through the peephole did not help; she did not recognize the man standing there.

"It's Paul Drake," came the swift response.

Della stared. "Paul Drake," she whispered to herself. Well, now she knew one thing for sure. It had not been Paul's voice on the telephone.

Quickly she unlocked the door and hauled it open. "Are you a detective?" she greeted before he could say another word.

"Yeah, I am!" Paul stepped closer to the storm door, something akin to hope flickering in his eyes. "Do you remember anything?"

Della kept a firm grip on the wooden door and made no move to unlatch the storm door. "Anything about what?" she queried.

"Anything about _anything!_" Paul exclaimed with a wild, desperate gesture. "Your life, me, Perry Mason! Heck, even the police or Burger!"

Della hesitated for only another moment. "Tell me about this life and these people," she said, unlocking the storm door and pushing it open. "Please come in."

A grin spread over Paul's features. Taking the door from her he pulled it open the rest of the way and stepped inside. "You don't know how great it is to hear you say that," he said.

xxxx

Tragg stirred, pushing himself up from his chair. He blinked, trying repeatedly to get the sleep out of his eyes. It refused.

Drat it all, he had been asleep _again!_

He was alone now; Maureen was probably out shopping or maybe at one of her organization's meetings. The dishwasher was going in the kitchen—the only real sign of life in the house that he could hear.

He frowned. Why was he so tired lately? He should not have fallen asleep so early. And he felt lethargic now. He ran a hand over his eyes.

Suddenly he perked up, looking to the phone. Maybe now he should try calling Hamilton to apologize. He probably would not be in the office this late. At least, Tragg hoped not. The last thing he needed was to keep working overtime, after the bizarre things he had been saying. Tragg would try his cellphone first.

Hamilton answered after the first ring. "Hello?" He sounded anxious.

"Mr. Burger, I wanted to let you know I'm sorry for how I acted this afternoon," Tragg said. "I know you're under a terrible strain. I had no right to yell at you and make it worse."

"Tragg, it's alright," Hamilton said, the relief obvious in his voice. "Where are you?"

"I'm at home," Tragg said. The phone beeped. "Oh. Excuse me, Mr. Burger. Someone's trying to call here."

"Of course," Hamilton said. "I can hold on."

"If I don't get back to you in five minutes, you should go ahead and hang up," Tragg said.

He pressed the button for the other line. "Hello?"

"Lieutenant, this is Officer Anderson," came Jimmy Anderson's voice. "I'm out near the Brent building. There's been a serious pileup in front of the parking garage."

Tragg came to attention. "Are there any casualties?"

"Two people are dead, Sir. Several more have been injured." He hesitated. "And I think you'll want to come down here."

"Why?" Tragg demanded. "What else has happened?"

What Jimmy told him next froze his blood. He stiffened, sitting up straight in the chair. "I'll be right out," he promised.

Quickly he pressed the button for Line 1 again. "Mr. Burger? I'm sorry; there's an urgent mess I have to tend to." He paused. "And I think you'll be interested in this one yourself."

"What is it?" Hamilton asked, his tone tense and concerned.

"It seems someone tried to kill Perry Mason," Tragg said. "The brakes were out on his car. He swerved to avoid traffic, the other cars swerved to avoid him, and they all crashed into each other. Well, Mason crashed into a bush near the curb."

Something heavy thumped to the floor on Hamilton's end of the phone. "Where is he?" he cried. "Is he badly hurt?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Tragg said. "He's been taken to the hospital, though. Central Receiving, I believe."

"Thank you. I'm going there."

Hamilton barely remembered to say goodbye as he fumbled to close his phone and slip it back in his pocket. He had quite accidentally dropped the latest of Mignon's volumes of the occult on the floor when Tragg had given him the news. She had given him a disapproving look before hearing his alarmed query. Now she was standing, coming over to pick up the book herself.

"What's happened?" she asked. "Who's been hurt?"

"Perry," Hamilton told her. "Mignon, I'm sorry, I have to go."

Mignon straightened, the tome in her hands. "You should," she nodded. "Especially if he is, as you say, your friend in the reality we've forgotten."

Hamilton nodded too. "Someone tried to kill him," he said. "Mignon, _please_ be careful. I don't think anyone's safe in this place."

"Then you must take care as well," Mignon said. "If the villains know you remember, they can't be anxious to see you continue to survive."

"Unless they think it's hilarious that I remember," Hamilton muttered. He hastened into the hall and to the front door. "I'll call as soon as I find out what's going on."

Mignon followed him to the doorway, watching in silence as he hurried outside. While he drove off, she turned back to her research. The scant information she had gleaned so far was largely not encouraging. But she would keep looking. There had to be something positive, somewhere along the way.

xxxx

Perry was sitting up in an examination room, disgruntled and in a sore mood, when two sets of footsteps approached.

"He's in here," the doctor's voice said. "Don't worry about him, Mr. Burger; he's already champing at the bit to get out of here. He's fine."

"Thank you, Doctor." The other voice was indeed Hamilton Burger's. Perry watched the door with a confused frown as Hamilton made his way inside.

"Perry, for the love of . . . what's going on?" Hamilton exclaimed in greeting. "Tragg told me someone tried to kill you!"

"Well, they didn't do a very good job," Perry retorted. He slid down from the table, grabbing for his coat and hat. "They got two other people killed instead. I scarcely have a scratch."

Hamilton gawked at him. "Are they letting you go?"

"They haven't told me I have to stay," Perry said. He glanced at the clock. "And I'm late for a very important meeting."

"Now?" Hamilton supposed he should not be surprised. He wasn't, exactly—mostly exasperated. "Perry, you could have been badly hurt. Can't you slow down for just a few hours? You should go home, get some rest!"

"I don't have time!" Perry shot back. "You're the one who started all of this."

Hamilton rocked back. "Me? How am I responsible for what happened to you?"

"You told me about Della Street," Perry said. "Then Paul told me. I finally got hold of her, hoping to get her side of this outrageous story, and she agreed to meet me at the Club Caribe. And I'm almost an hour late!"

Hamilton took a moment to try to process all that he was being told. If Perry was actually going to meet with Della, Hamilton certainly did not want to stand in the way. It could be vitally important. But he also did not want to see Perry run off half-cocked and get himself hurt.

"I can drive you there," he said at last.

Perry peered at him. "Why would you do that?" The suspicion was written on his face and dripping from his voice.

Hamilton shifted, uncomfortable at being put on the spot. "Because . . . oh, nevermind. Come with me and we can talk on the way, if you're interested."

Perry considered it for all of a few seconds. "I'm interested," he said. "Let's go."

xxxx

Della stood from where she had been sitting on the couch, beginning to pace the floor. "I don't know what to say, Mr. Drake," she said. "What you're telling me sounds so incredible. And I don't understand why, if it's true, we just don't remember."

"That makes two of us," Paul sighed. "Della, doesn't anything ring a bell? Anything at all?" He leaned forward, desperately hoping for a positive answer. For the last twenty-five minutes he had been telling Della everything he could think of about the world as it was supposed to be. She had listened with interest but had shown no signs that any of it meant anything to her.

Della hesitated. At last she turned to face Paul again. "I'm sorry," she said. "Nothing sounds familiar in the least, except for the part about me being Mr. Mason's secretary. And even that is nothing more than a vague feeling that may mean nothing."

"It means everything!" Paul cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Della, you and Perry are . . . well, you'd do anything for each other. And I guess whatever went wrong here can't stop either of you from remembering that, somewhere deep down. I just wish it could help you remember the rest, too."

"Well . . ." Della glanced to the door. "Maybe, once I meet Mr. Mason, it will."

The knock on the door made her jump a mile. "Oh dear, that must be Mr. Anderson," she said. "I never did have the chance to really get ready."

"You look fine," Paul said. "Anyway, I thought you didn't want to make the impression that you were interested in more than just talking to Perry."

Della gave him a Look. "That doesn't mean I want to show up looking a complete mess." She debated with herself for only a moment. "I'm going to freshen up. Would you answer the door, please?"

"Me?" Paul exclaimed. But Della was already hurrying down the hall. Heaving a big sigh, and bracing himself for the fireworks, Paul unlocked and opened the door.

Andy immediately stiffened, staring at him. "You!" he burst out. "What are you doing here?"

"Take it easy," Paul said. "I came to talk to Miss Street. Now she's running around getting ready for this meeting with Mr. Mason. I'd tell you how long she'll be, but . . ." He gave a helpless shrug. "I really have no idea."

Andy looked past him and down the hall. "Miss Street?" he called. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Anderson!" Della called back.

Paul folded his arms. "Satisfied?"

"I suppose I'll have to be," Andy said. "You understand I'm not in favor of this meeting. I feel that someone is playing a cruel joke on Miss Street. Either that or worse."

"A stalker?" Paul supplied. "Look, if anyone's stalking her, I'll be the first to jump in to protect her."

"You'll forgive me if I don't know whether to believe you or not," Andy said. "I don't think too highly of strange people who chase after my teachers feeding them ridiculous stories."

"Why does it have to be ridiculous?" Paul returned.

Andy was taken aback. "Well . . . because things like this just don't happen!" He spread his hands. "An entire group of people can't be made to forget everything, just like that!"

"Hoo boy, I would _love_ to go back to the days when I believed that too," Paul remarked. "Oh, and you might as well come in. Della could be a while, and you're letting in the night air."

Andy stepped inside and shut the door after him. "Thank you."

"So, why did Della pick you to be her chaperone?" Paul inquired. "Is she more than just one of your teachers? If you know what I mean." He hoped not. That would be a disastrous hurdle to get across. Plus, he hated to think how uncomfortable and mortified both Della and Andy would be once they remembered the truth.

"Miss Street and I are friends," Andy said firmly. "That makes her 'more than just one of my teachers', but also isn't what you mean." He narrowed his eyes. "And what about you?"

"We're friends too," Paul said. "The problem is that she doesn't remember it."

"How unfortunate." Andy glanced to the hall. "Miss Street, are you almost ready?" he called. "We just barely have time to make it."

There was no reply. The men exchanged a confused look. "I didn't hear her turn on the shower," Paul said, stepping closer to the hall entrance. "She should've heard you."

Andy went past him. "Miss Street?"

As he neared the back rooms an unfamiliar odor filled the air. He coughed, covering his nose and mouth. "What is this?" He swayed, lightheaded in spite of his efforts.

Paul came up behind him. "Some kind of knockout gas!" he announced, grim. "It might've already got Della."

At that moment the lights went out, plunging them into darkness with the gas—and whoever had implemented it.

xxxx

Perry was frowning as the car pulled up at the Club Caribe. As promised, Hamilton had been trying to explain this supposedly missing life on the way there. By now Perry was not only gravely confused but also less sure than ever of what was going on. Outwardly, however, he tried to mask any doubts.

"Mr. Burger," he spoke. "I can't make sense of what you've been telling me. None of it sounds right."

"Not even about Della?" Hamilton frowned. He turned off the engine.

"She is the one factor I'm unsure of," Perry said. "That is why I arranged this meeting." He glanced at the clock. She had probably already come and gone by this time, assuming that it had all been a prank. It would be much more difficult to get her to come another time. He reached to unlock his door and step out.

"I see," Hamilton said. "Then you don't think anything else could be true."

Perry paused. "Frankly, no," he said. He looked back at the prosecuting attorney. "Particularly that we could ever be on friendly terms. In the world I remember, neither of us would ever dream of such a thing."

Hamilton's eyes flickered with something that looked akin to hurt. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said.

Perry pushed the door open and climbed out. "I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Burger," he said. "But as far as I'm concerned you helped me solely in order to further this plan of yours, whatever it is." He started walking towards the nightclub.

"Now just a minute!" Hamilton leaped out of the car as well and gave chase. "Alright, there's some truth in that. But you're twisting it all around! It's for your sake as much as anyone else's. You don't remember it now, but you'd never want to stay in this world. You don't belong here; none of us do! What I want is to find the way to get all of us back to our normal lives. Don't tell me you haven't realized that something isn't right here. Perry, someone tried to kill you tonight!"

"And it could have easily been some disgruntled person I met on one of my cases," Perry said. "There's no evidence that it has anything to do with these fables you're telling me. Goodnight." Arriving at the front door, he hauled it open and walked inside.

Hamilton stopped short, his arms dropping to his sides. There was no point in him staying here. Perry was still all but hostile. But, he supposed, he should at least stay to see if Della had waited. Not that Perry would want anything more from him if she hadn't.

Actually, it was strange that Paul had not called him. The last thing Hamilton knew, Paul had located Della's house via the address and was going to talk to her. Hamilton had tried calling him once, but there had been no answer. And there had been no chance to try again.

He blinked in surprise when the door opened again moments later and Perry came out, both dejected and troubled. "What happened?" Hamilton asked. "She didn't wait?"

"No." Perry looked to him. "She never arrived."


	7. Truck

**Chapter Seven**

The first thing Paul really processed was the feeling that the floor was moving under him. He woke up more, squinting and grimacing in the near-darkness. His head was killing him. And . . . was he alone? He hadn't been before. He shouldn't be now.

Then again, he shouldn't be being shanghaied, either.

"Della?" he rasped. "Andy?"

He received two answering groans.

"Where . . . do you get off . . . calling me Andy?"

". . . Paul? Mr. Anderson?"

That woke Paul up the rest of the way. "Della?" he exclaimed. "You just called me _Paul._ Do you remember?"

". . . What? Oh. Mr. Drake. No, I'm sorry, I don't. I don't know why I did that just now."

Paul was not deterred. "Well, I do," he insisted. "It means you still remember the truth, deep down! You weren't thinking and it came out."

"Right now I think we have more important things to think about," Andy interjected. A tiny light clicked on. "Such as, where are we and why are we being abducted?"

Paul blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the penlight. "The last thing I remember is the lights going out in Della's house. Then that knockout gas bamboozled me and out I went."

"That's what I remember too," Andy said.

Della slowly pulled herself into a sitting position. A hand immediately flew to her head. "I smelled the gas when I was at the sink," she said. "I tried to call to both of you, but it overwhelmed me before I could."

"And now we're in a van or a truck or something bound for who knows where!" Paul cried. "Oh brother. They really don't want you and Perry to meet!"

"What?" Della stared. "You honestly think _that's_ what this is about?"

"Why, that's preposterous," objected Andy. "There's no earthly reason for such a wild assumption!"

"Unless I'm right," Paul said. "Look, as long as we're moving, and at this speed, there's not much we can do but talk. My cellphone's been taken. Yours is probably gone too, if you brought it. So we won't be able to call for help."

"What are you proposing, Mr. Drake?" Andy asked as he checked his pockets. Paul was right; his phone was missing.

"Della's heard some of the truth," Paul said. "How about you hear it too?"

Andy was silent for a moment. "I suppose that's fair enough. Alright, Mr. Drake. Start talking."

xxxx

Hamilton was worried. He could not believe that Della would deliberately stand Perry up, even without remembering him. And Paul had still not contacted him, nor could Hamilton reach him.

"Perry, I have Della's address," he spoke now. They were walking back to his car in the Club Caribe's parking lot. "We should go there and find out what happened."

"Oh, I was a fool to think this would work," Perry said in disgust. "She probably thinks I'm some sort of sick pervert."

"You said she was bringing a chaperone," Hamilton said. "Perry, I'm afraid something is wrong. I'm going to drive out to her house and try to find out. If you'd rather think she jilted you, you can stay here and take a cab somewhere else."

Perry stiffened. ". . . One thing I've appreciated about you is that you've always been frank with me," he said. "You're right, of course. We should explore all possible angles. I'll come with you."

"Good," Hamilton retorted. Despite being relieved, he did not show it much now. He was too exasperated and worried.

He pondered on his earlier outburst as he drove to the Valley several minutes later. He had agreed with Perry that he wanted Perry's involvement in a plan, but had countered that it was a plan that would benefit all of them. That was true, every bit of it. But he had been so stunned by Perry's accusation that he had honed in on that aspect and had not even addressed anything else.

He had not told Perry how upset he had been when Tragg had told him about the accident. He had said nothing about the dire predictions concerning Perry's state of being that he had concocted in his mind while driving to the hospital or how he had wondered if Perry would even survive. And he had not acknowledged that the other reason he had offered to drive Perry to the Club Caribe was because he wanted to make sure Perry would get there safely.

Actually, he had thought the fact that he cared was obvious and he did not need to say anything. In the past, his actions had been enough. Perry had always known. But this Perry did not.

"Perry, I . . ." He hesitated, uncomfortable in the darkness. He kept his eyes on the road and gripped the steering wheel. ". . . When Lieutenant Tragg called and told me about the accident, I was worried."

"Worried?" Perry looked to him sharply. "Why?"

"Well . . . neither of us even knew how bad off you were. I didn't find out you were going to be alright until I got to the hospital."

"So you were concerned that this great plan of yours would fail without me," Perry said.

"No!" Hamilton exclaimed. "Perry, would you please stop dwelling on this thing about a plan? I care about you. I don't want you to be hurt! Why is that so hard to believe?"

Perry frowned deeply, leaning back in the seat. "To be honest, if things are as _you_ say, it shouldn't be," he admitted. "If things are as _I_ say, it is. But . . ." He shook his head. "The way I remember you is not the way you've acted today. And I know you wouldn't lie to me. Yet at the same time I find myself wondering what kind of trick you're pulling." He shook his head. "This is something that will take me some time to get used to. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

". . . At least if you admit you're trying to get used to it," Hamilton said quietly.

"I haven't tried very hard," Perry confessed. "It's too strange."

Hamilton shook his head. "Vivalene really did a number on me in this place," he muttered.

The rest of the drive was completed in silence. When they arrived at Della's house they received three surprises.

"The lights are all off," Hamilton noted with a frown. "And that's Paul's car in the driveway, along with those other cars. If they're in the house, why are they in the dark? And if they're gone, where did they go?"

"And who's that?" Perry exclaimed, leaning forward to have a better look. A strange man in a fedora and trenchcoat was walking around the perimeter of the property, gazing up at the house.

"I don't know, but we're going to find out!" Hamilton declared. He pushed open the door and stepped out, hurrying up the walk. "Hey!" he called. "What do you think you're doing?"

The other man jumped a mile. As he turned, his eyes were hidden under the brim of his hat. But the disapproving way he tensed was very clear. "You!" he declared.

Hamilton ground to a halt. "Steve?" he said in disbelief. "Lieutenant Steve Drumm?"

"I don't know what you're going on about," was the retort. "Yes, my name is Steve Drumm, but I'm a private investigator—as you know very well, Mr. Burger. I heard that you're taking steps to revoke Paul Drake's license."

Hamilton cringed. So this was what had become of Lieutenant Drumm in this strange world. He doubted that the Drumm he knew would be pleased.

"Then I guess you didn't hear that I determined the charges were false and dropped them," he said.

Drumm's eyes flickered with surprise. "No," he said. "I didn't. It's funny Mr. Drake hasn't mentioned it anywhere."

"He's probably too busy," Hamilton said. "Now, would you mind telling us what you're doing outside the house of Miss Della Street?"

Drumm glanced from Hamilton to Perry and back again, looking unsure if he minded or not.

"That's Mr. Drake's car parked here," Perry supplied. "Mr. Burger was concerned that something might be wrong with both him and Miss Street. I'm starting to wonder the same. Are you here on a case?"

"Why, no," Drumm exclaimed. Worried now, he hastened to clarify. "I know one of the neighbors. He told me he thought something odd was happening here, so I thought I'd come over and look before bothering the police."

"Exactly what did he think was happening here that was so odd?" Hamilton wanted to know.

"He said he saw an unmarked van parked in front," Drumm said. "He knew Miss Street had no intention of moving, so it seemed strange. Then all the lights went out in the house at once."

"Did he keep watching?" Perry queried.

"He wanted to, but there was a Christmas party going on at his house right then," Drumm said. "He was called away. When he went back, the van was gone and the house was just as it is now, cars and all."

Hamilton pulled out his cellphone. "I'm calling the police," he said.

"And I'm not going to wait for them," Perry declared. He headed up to the porch and tried the knob. "It's not locked." He pushed open the door and stepped inside. "Paul? Miss Street?"

The unpleasant air in the house had him gasping for breath in a matter of seconds. He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

"Knockout gas," Drumm deduced from behind him.

That was all Perry needed to hear. He barreled in deeper, continuing to call for the missing people. Once Hamilton had alerted the police, he cautiously entered the house as well. But neither of them had much hope. Della and Paul and whoever might have been with them—perhaps Andy—had likely been abducted. Once the house turned up empty, the police were of the same opinion.

"I can't understand it," Tragg frowned as he stood outside the house with Hamilton a while later. "You honestly think this ties in with someone trying to kill Perry Mason?"

"Tragg . . ." Hamilton sighed. "Even if you don't want to believe that what I've been telling you has any merit, look at the facts. Perry was going to meet Della tonight. Someone tampered with the brakes on his car and nearly killed him. But he came out alright and was still trying to keep the date. Only now Della is missing."

Tragg considered it and gave a grudging nod. "It could be a coincidence," he said. "But on the other hand we have to investigate every angle. Alright, Mr. Burger. Let's see if we can find a connection."

Hamilton relaxed. "Thank you," he said in all sincerity.

A frown crossed his features as he watched Tragg scratch down some notes. "You look exhausted," he observed.

"Yeah, I know," Tragg grumbled. "I don't know what it is. Maybe I've been taking your example and working too hard without realizing it."

"How long has it been going on?" Hamilton asked in concern.

Tragg shrugged. "Eh . . . I don't remember when it started." He paused, looking up. "I can never get enough sleep anymore. I'm always worn out no matter what I do."

"Have you seen a doctor?" Hamilton doubted it. Tragg was stubborn and not a fan of doctors or hospitals. Not that Hamilton blamed him in the least.

"Oh, he'd just want me to pop some pills or check into a sleep center," Tragg said. "I don't have time for either."

"He might not necessarily want that," Hamilton said. "Tragg, you need to find out what's wrong!"

"Well . . . maybe I'll take some time off next week," Tragg said.

"Yes, but you just said that nothing helps," Hamilton objected. "How will that do any good?"

"I won't know until I try. But enough about my problems! Let's find these people." Tragg looked back to his pad. "So Drake and this Miss Street are both missing. This other car in the driveway is registered to Andrew Anderson, the man Miss Street said she was going to bring as a chaperone to this meeting with Mason. He could either be another victim or maybe the perp."

Hamilton stared at him. It was beyond chilling, to hear him speak of Andy—a man whom he had called his surrogate son—in such a way. But no one would be more devastated than Tragg himself, if . . . no, _when_ he remembered.

"Do you know anything else about Mr. Anderson?" he asked carefully, deciding it best not to even mention that Tragg was supposed to know him.

"He's the principal of Miss Street's school, according to a folder in her living room," Tragg said. "For now we're assuming that all three of them met with foul play. But if we find evidence later that makes it look bad for him, he'll become a person of interest." He walked away. "I'm going to call in."

Hamilton watched him go. Right now he felt absolutely helpless. Judging from how Perry looked, standing alone at the edge of the yard, he felt not only helpless but bewildered. Hamilton was not sure whether to go to him or not. Perhaps he wanted his space.

xxxx

By the time the vehicle was slowing at last, Paul had managed to enumerate the main points concerning their forgotten lives. He could barely see Andy's face in the heavily shadowed van or truck or whatever it was. But somehow he doubted that his words had made much of a mark—unless it was a negative one.

"What you're saying sounds absolutely insane," Andy said. "You realize that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I realize it," Paul growled. "So why would I go around saying it and getting branded a nut if I didn't think it was important?"

Andy sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. He looked to the third member of their group. "Miss Street, what do you think about this?"

Della was embarrassed to be put on the spot. "I'm really not sure," she said. "I haven't decided what to think. I was hoping that meeting with Mr. Mason would give me some answers."

She tensed as the van jerked. "But right now I'm afraid we have more important things to worry about," she said. "It feels like we're going to stop."

"Either that or we're going through a construction zone," Andy said.

The van ground to a halt within the next moments. Paul was fully at attention. He got up from the floor and walked over near the back. "The doors are locked," he reported. "Which isn't anything less than what we figured. But if they come around to let us out, we should take them by surprise and jump them."

"That's too dangerous!" Andy retorted. "What if they start shooting?"

"It's a risk we're going to have to take," Paul said. "Della, you get behind me."

Della stood, crossing the floor to where Paul was standing. As footsteps drew close from outside Paul pressed himself against the side wall. Andy scrambled to get into position on the opposite side. Whether or not he had determined that Paul was right was debatable. Or maybe it was his policeman's instinct.

The doors creaked open. Two men none of them had ever seen before were standing below, peering into the space. "Hey," exclaimed one, "where did they go?"

"Now!" Paul yelled. He and Andy leaped out of the van, tackling their shocked captors to the ground. "Della, run!" Paul ordered. "Find a phone and call for help!"

Della stared in horror at the vicious fight. How could she leave them here? They could be seriously injured before she could ever return. Of course, there wasn't much she could do anyway, other than to send for help. Rationally, she knew that was the best thing to do. But as she ran, jumped to the ground, and kept running, she still felt guilty. Forcing the sounds of the blows out of her mind, she tore for the nearest phone booth.

Paul bounced back from one particularly nasty punch, striking his enemy and forcing his shoulders hard into the asphalt. "Alright, give us some answers!" he barked. "Who are you and what were you trying to do with us?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Andy was getting along alright too. Andy did not remember that he was a cop, but he still fought like one.

"Man, I don't know!" cried the guy Paul was restraining. "We were just hired to drive this rig and bring you guys out here. Someone else was going to take over then. We don't know who or why or what!"

"So you'll do anything for a buck," Paul said in disgust. "Is that it?"

"We didn't know what they wanted you for!" protested the second.

"You can't have thought it was anything good," Andy retorted. "You'll both be charged with abduction!"

"And don't look now, but the cavalry's coming," Paul said. "The enemy cavalry." He got to his feet, looking to a group of people just coming out of the expensive house they had parked in front of. From the looks of it, every one of them was armed.

Andy stared. "What are we going to do?"

"I've got an idea." Paul dug into the mercenary's pocket and pulled out a keyring. "I know how to drive these things. Let's take it, find Della, and get the heck out of here!"

Andy jumped up. "I like this idea of yours better than your others," he said.

With all of their newfound adversaries giving chase, Paul and Andy raced for the cab. Throwing open the doors, they climbed inside and pulled the doors shut after them. Paul had the engine running and was pulling out almost in one motion.

"Maybe I'll regret asking, but why exactly do you know how to drive this?" Andy asked, fumbling with the seatbelt.

"It's a long story," Paul returned. "Let's just say it has to do with a bizarre case involving paintings and a dirty cop."

He turned the truck around as fast as he dared. Several of the men were shooting at them. Bullets hit the van, the cab, and one drilled into the door. Paul clenched his teeth. "Not the tires," he prayed. "Just don't let them hit the tires."

He gathered speed as they went down the road. Before long Della came into view, running along the sidewalk. Andy flung open the passenger door. "Nevermind the phone call. Get in, quick!" he commanded.

Della looked up with a start. She needed no prodding. As Andy moved over she scrambled into the cab. He reached across her, pulling the door shut again.

"Are our _friends_ still back there?" he asked.

Paul glanced out the window. "Oh yeah. They're still coming." He increased his speed. "Still shooting, too. Some of them are getting into a car. We're about to have even more unwelcome company."

"Shouldn't there be a radio in here?" Della wondered. "So the trucker can get in touch with his boss?"

"Della, you're a genius!" Paul proclaimed. "I've got to keep my eyes on the road. You and Andy look for a radio. Maybe we can call for help on that."

"I still say I don't know you well enough for you to call me _Andy,_" Andy grumbled.

"You didn't say '_You_ don't know _me_,'" Paul noted. "That's an improvement."

Andy grunted. ". . . I don't see a radio," he said after a moment. "I think it's been removed."

Paul groaned. "I knew that would be too easy!" he berated. "Wait, is there a cellphone anywhere?"

"I don't see one," Della said as their search continued.

Another bullet hit its mark—the left side mirror. Paul flinched as it shattered. "Oh boy," he said. "Now we've got a blind spot. A big one." The dark car some of their pursuers had got into was probably gaining on them, but he could not even see for sure. "You'd think someone would see this procession and call the police!"

"This area is still under development," Andy said. "That house we were stopped at seems to be one of the only ones completed!" Indeed, they were speeding past houses in all states of _in_completion. Construction equipment was in almost every yard.

"Nevermind the details!" Paul shot back. "Just worry about running out of road!"

Della looked up with a jerk. Up ahead, a mountain of dirt and a caterpillar blocked their path. "What are we going to do?" she exclaimed.

"Well, I don't think these things were built for this, but we don't have much choice. Hang on!" Paul pressed hard on the accelerator, forcing the rig to climb onto the browned grass and dirt just to the side of the road's end. They would have to travel over the ground reserved for new homes, praying for a shortcut to another real street.

The ride was jolting and jostling. Paul could do nothing but slow down, clenching his teeth and gripping the wheel. Behind them, the car was swiftly closing in the distance. It traveled much easier over the bumpy terrain, although its occupants were probably not pleased by the bouncing.

Della was clutching Andy's arm, her knuckles white. "We're not going to make it!" she cried. "They're catching up!"

"Oh, we're going to make it," Paul vowed. "We have to!"

A tire ran over a large rock. The truck veered and tipped dangerously, some of the tires on the right side beginning to rise into the air. Della screamed in terror. Paul and Andy braced themselves for the inevitable. They were going to crash!

At the last possible moment the tires settled back onto solid ground. But as they plunged downhill, a sickening _boom_ resounded through the night. One of the back tires had been hit. The truck careened forward.

Paul slammed on the brakes, pushing harder and harder until it felt like the pedal would break through the floor. As they ground to a halt on a road at the bottom of the incline, the sound of sirens filled the air. The people in the dark car, seeing the approaching squad car from above, quickly turned and fled.

Slowly everyone began to relax. Della released Andy's arm, her fingers tingling as sensation began to return. "I think that's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard," she declared. The sirens grew louder and then stopped as the squad car pulled up in front of the truck.

Paul let go of the steering wheel. "Well, kids, what have we learned tonight?" he asked, forcing a bit of levity into his voice.

"Never take a semi off the road," Andy said, rubbing at his arm.

"Always be grateful the police are around," Della added.

The officers were hurrying out of the car and over to the truck. One of them stared in disbelieving astonishment. "Andy?" he cried.

Andy pushed open the door. "Jimmy!" he greeted. "Well, fancy meeting you here."

"The whole police force has been looking for you!" Jimmy said. "What happened? We thought you'd been kidnapped!"

"We were," Paul interjected. "We stole their truck and ran for it."

Jimmy shook his head, taking a step back to look at the battered vehicle. "This is going to make one wild report," he declared.

"You don't know the half of it," Paul said.

xxxx

Mignon closed the last book, troubled as she sank back into her chair. She had not found anything conclusive. If Hamilton was telling the truth—and she believed that indeed he was—the villains masterminding this plot had removed all references in the books that might help reverse what they had done.

Perhaps in the end, all they could do would be to seek out this box and the slab. Would destroying them break the spell? Or could there be more to it? With such an intricate plot it seemed unlikely that it could be stopped so simply.

But what else could be the key?

She stood, walking to the window and looking out at the darkened streets. "Hamilton, you came to me for help," she said quietly. "I don't want to let you down."

Perhaps in the morning she could call on some of her friends. They might know something she could try.

Morning, however, was a long way off. And sleep would more than likely be elusive tonight.

xxxx

It wasn't long before Jimmy's radio call brought several more cars to their location. Bullets were removed from the truck and imprints were taken of the dark car's tire tracks. The house, however, mysteriously and strangely, was altogether empty. What was more, it did not look like anyone was living there or even had been.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Paul grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "How did they all clear out so fast?"

"Now that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question," Tragg remarked. Paul looked up with a start. Tragg was ambling over to him, Perry and Hamilton in tow.

"Paul, are you alright?" Perry called.

"Yeah, Perry, I'm fine," Paul returned. "So are Della and Andy." They were both in the process of giving their statements.

Perry started. "Miss Street is still here?"

"She's still here," Paul said firmly. "And as soon as she's done talking to Officer Anderson, you two are going to meet."

"Good," Perry said. But something about his manner of speech and his body language indicated that he was awkward and nervous at the thought.

Paul shook his head. "I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't looking right at it," he said to Hamilton as Hamilton walked over. "Perry's got the jitters about meeting a woman. And not just any woman, but Miss Della Street! You know, I'm still not sure I believe it."

Hamilton chuckled. "Well, we'll just have to hope it'll do some good," he said. He sobered. "Paul, what happened out there? Are you and Della and Andy really okay?"

"As far as I know," Paul said. "But am I telling you, it was a _madhouse!_"

They both came to attention as Della stepped away from Jimmy. She started walking and then stopped short, catching sight of Perry. He, at the same time, had noticed her.

". . . Excuse me," Perry said at last. "Are you Della Street?"

Della smiled. "Yes," she said. "And you don't need an introduction, Mr. Mason."

"Well." Perry came to stand in front of her. "Would you like to take a late dinner?"

"I would like that very much," Della said.

Perry extended his arm. "Then shall we go?"

Della took it. "How are we getting there?" she wondered. "I don't see anything but police cars. And somehow I don't think they would appreciate one of those being borrowed."

"I sent for a cab," Perry said. "You see, I hoped you would say Yes." He looked ahead. "Here it comes now."

"The driver has perfect timing," Della said in approval.

Paul crossed his arms, observing while Perry held the door open for Della to enter before getting in himself. "And there they go," he said. "Keep your fingers crossed."

"At least they seem to be off to a good start," Hamilton remarked.


	8. Bubble

**Chapter Eight**

Paul slid into a corner booth at Clay's Restaurant and Grill, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder as he did. Hamilton was already there, sipping a cup of what was probably tea. He looked up, watching Paul.

"You're late," he accused.

"Sorry," Paul retorted, his voice sharp. "Someone tailed me for several blocks. I didn't want him following me in here, so I led him on a wild goose chase and hopefully lost him."

Hamilton sighed. "Alright, alright." He set down the cup. "What's been happening aside from that?"

"Well, I'll be honest—I'm not sure." Paul crossed his arms on the table. "Perry and Della are going out again tonight."

Hamilton blinked. "That's a good thing," he exclaimed. "We wanted them to take to each other."

"Yeah, but I don't think they're remembering," Paul said in frustration. "It's been four days and still nothing."

Hamilton sighed. "And the longer it goes on, the worse it gets for us," he said. "On the other hand, think about Vivalene and Judge Heyes. They must be getting pretty edgy too."

"And they haven't done anything," Paul growled. "That's more agonizing than if they had! We don't have any idea when or where they're going to strike!"

"You've been in Perry's office more than I have," Hamilton said. "How has Vivalene been acting?"

"Cool as a cucumber," Paul said. "A frozen cucumber. I can hear the ice forming on every word."

"That's the same kind of reception I've gotten," Hamilton said. "When I went in, she said 'You think you're pretty smart, don't you.'"

"No 'darling' on the end?" Paul said, half-sarcastic.

". . . Yes," Hamilton said. "It was probably the most chilled word of all."

"So how's Perry treating you now?" Paul wondered.

"I don't think he knows _how_ to treat me," Hamilton admitted. "He's still suspicious, I can tell that much. But the thing with Della has softened him at least somewhat."

He pushed the menu aside. "Maybe they still will remember. I guess we couldn't expect it to be so easy that they'd take one look at each other and everything would come back."

"That's what I _wanted_ to have happen," Paul grumbled.

Hamilton nodded. "It would've been nice. I won't deny that."

Paul sat up straighter. "Hey, have you seen Tragg lately?" he demanded. "He looks terrible!"

"I know," Hamilton frowned. "I keep telling him to see a doctor. He won't even be able to do his work if he goes on as exhausted as he's been the last few days."

"I just don't understand it." Paul shook his head. "Tragg's sick. His wife's alive. Nobody remembers anything. It's like the worst kind of trippy dream!"

Hamilton nodded. "That woman couldn't really be his wife. What worries me is who she actually is."

"An innocent bystander dragged into this mess?" Paul suggested.

"Or an accomplice of Vivalene's and Heyes'," Hamilton said. "I'm going to go over there from here and talk to her about Tragg's condition. Maybe I can figure out something about her based on how she reacts to that."

"Why didn't you try that sooner?" Paul wondered.

"I've been trying every day," Hamilton said in exasperation. "Nobody's been home. Tragg told me she goes shopping a lot."

"She must be draining his bank account dry," Paul said in disbelief.

"And that's not how she used to be," Hamilton said.

"No one else is, either, so that doesn't mean much," Paul retorted.

Hamilton glanced in the direction of the counter. When Paul followed his gaze he stared in surprise. Clay was wiping down the counter, looking their way with a disapproving frown.

"What's his problem?" Paul exclaimed. "I've never seen Clay look like that before."

"_I'm_ his problem," Hamilton sighed. "Vivalene's been having a heyday making trouble for me. She put it into Clay's head that I threatened to close this place down, after someone got food poisoning supposedly from eating here." He paused. "Of course, if someone really had gotten food poisoning I'd have to open up an investigation," he quickly added. "I'd hope Clay would understand, but judging from this he might not."

"Oh brother. What _hasn't_ Vivalene done to you?" Paul said.

"At this point, I don't even know anymore. My neighbors have been giving me some black looks too." Hamilton shook his head. "But nevermind about me; that's not important."

A bit surprised, Paul moved to a different topic. "We need to figure out some kind of strategy for what we're going to do," he said.

"Unfortunately, I think we've done all we can for now," Hamilton said. "If we push too hard, they're just going to rebel all the more. I say the best thing is to just casually slip comments about our past experiences with them into the conversations. Maybe something will touch off a spark of memory. Meanwhile, we'll stay on alert in case Vivalene and her pals do something. They won't stay quiet forever."

Paul sighed, idly spinning the menu around on the table. "You know, we haven't seen hide nor hair of Flo," he realized.

"I do know. And it worries me." Hamilton leaned back. "With her and Vivalene's penchant for switching places, maybe she's even in Perry's office sometimes. And that would put Vivalene Heaven knows where."

"Heaven knows where is right," Paul agreed. "It scares me to think about those girls wandering around town and us not even knowing where. At least I thought we knew what Vivalene was up to."

"She always has several different angles," Hamilton said. "We've probably only seen the smallest part of one of them."

Paul nodded. ". . . Have you heard back from Mignon yet?"

"She called me a couple of days ago," Hamilton said. "She said she wasn't having any luck, but she thought she might have a lead. She said she'd call when she saw if it would work out."

"I hope it does," Paul said. "Boy, could we use some good luck now."

Hamilton's phone rang, startling them both. He took it out, glancing at the screen. "It's Mignon," he said. "Excuse me." He turned away, flipping the phone open. "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger, I'm afraid I have bad news." The reception was static and threatened to completely fade out.

Hamilton pressed the phone harder against his ear, at the same time pushing back the pain at hearing her address him in such a cool, formal manner. "Mignon, I'm having trouble hearing you," he said. "Where are you? What's wrong?"

"For the last few hours I've been attempting to leave Los Angeles and go to Oregon to speak with a friend of Douglas Peterson's," Mignon said. "Strangely, I discovered that all the airplanes at LAX are grounded. The staff doesn't even seem aware of why they're not flying. They told me something very vague about the weather."

"What?" Hamilton burst out. "I haven't heard anything about this!" Paul, as well as several other patrons, turned to look at him in surprise.

"The majority of the citizens appear to be taking it in stride," Mignon said. "I also tried the train and bus stations, with the same result. Finally I decided I would simply drive to Oregon on my own."

"Is that where you are now?" Hamilton asked.

"Unfortunately, no. I'm just at the edge of Los Angeles County. My car passed through an invisible barrier at the county line. As soon as it was across, it nearly careened off the road. I have tried to go forward several more times, and each time I've come closer to being killed. Finally I decided it was no use. When I drove back towards the barrier, I passed through without any trouble whatsoever.

"These people do not want anyone to leave Los Angeles County!"

Hamilton leaped to his feet. "That's ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "Are you saying we're trapped in some kind of bubble?"

"If you want to call it that."

"I'm coming out there," Hamilton declared.

"Feel free. But . . . don't do anything unnecessarily dangerous," Mignon pleaded.

"This I have to see for myself," Hamilton said. "Are any other cars around?"

"No. In fact, I didn't pass one car on this highway at all."

Hamilton was bowled over. "Alright. Goodbye, Mignon." He hung up and looked to Paul, who was standing by now as well.

"What, for crying out loud, is going on?" Paul demanded.

Hamilton glanced at the restaurant filled with goggle-eyed people. ". . . I'll tell you outside," he said. "Let's go." He left some coins on the table in payment for the tea and hurried for the door. Paul chased after him.

Within a few minutes of them departing the establishment another disbelieving cry echoed over the property.

"You have _got _to be kidding!" Paul burst out.

"I wish I were," Hamilton retorted. "Look, Paul—I don't like this any more than you do. I'm one of the most skeptical people you'll ever find. Even something relatively more mild, like ghosts, sounds outlandish to me. But over the past few weeks even I've been forced to acknowledge that strange things are going on. And this . . . _this_ tops it all!" He headed for his car.

"But you still can't believe it unless you see it yourself," Paul said as he followed. He had parked nearby.

"I don't _disbelieve_ Mignon. But yes, I like to see things for myself. I didn't know you were any different." Hamilton unlocked his car and got in. "You can come or not."

"I'm coming," Paul said. "I'll follow you in my car."

"Fine." Hamilton shut the door.

While he backed out of the parking space, Paul hastened to his own vehicle. His heart was pounding. What on earth was happening to them? Were they really trapped in the county? Why? _How?_

And how would they make everything go back to normal?

xxxx

Mignon was waiting for them at the county line. She stepped out of her car when she saw them pulling up, crossing to a space several feet away.

"This is the barrier," she called, placing her hand in seeming thin air. Something translucent rippled under the beams of their headlights.

"Unbelievable," Paul gasped. Both he and Hamilton hurried over, reaching to touch the substance as well. It was almost like the sensation of plunging one's hand into water, except that there was no liquid.

"This isn't possible," Hamilton objected. "A bubble around the entire county? What's holding it up?"

"It may be powered by the missing box," Mignon said.

Hamilton poked it. "Did you try walking through without your car?"

"Yes. It was worse without the car. I was violently thrown."

Hamilton turned to stare at her in shock. Now that he was taking a closer look he could see that her clothes were torn and her skin scratched in several places. "Mignon, are you badly hurt?" he gasped.

Mignon looked pleased by his concern. "No," she said. "I'm alright." But Hamilton could not help but notice that she was moving somewhat stiffly.

"Well, so now what?" Paul threw his hands in the air. "As if things aren't already bad enough, we're being held hostage in our own county!"

"I've never heard of such a thing," Mignon said. "I can ask some of my friends, but somehow I doubt that they will know, either." She looked to the men. "I firmly believe that we must find the box and the slab in order to solve this. Every other idea we try has been failing miserably."

"And those missing artifacts must be in the lion's den. Oh great," Paul groaned.

"Do everything you can to investigate your enemies and any place they might have hidden these objects," Mignon said. "I will do whatever I can to help."

"Mignon, you've done plenty." Hamilton gently placed an arm around her shoulders to steer her away. "Let me help you get cleaned up and I'll drive you home."

Mignon tensed at his touch but then relaxed, quirking an eyebrow. "What about my car?"

"I'll send a couple of my investigators for it in the morning," Hamilton promised.

Mignon considered it. "Very well. I'll allow you to bind up my wounds, Mr. Burger," she said at last.

Hamilton looked into her eyes. "If you really believe me, can't you call me _Hamilton_ again?" he pleaded.

Mignon looked away, pierced by the sadness and hurt in his eyes and voice. ". . . If I am to fully believe you, I have to let go of everything I remember. That is difficult. In my memories you hurt me deeply."

"It didn't happen," Hamilton said. "At least, I _hope _it didn't. We've always agreed to disagree. I don't know how to convince you of that."

By now Paul was feeling very uncomfortable. "Okay, I'm just going to mosey on home, maybe start another search on the elusive Mr. Vann." He turned to go.

Hamilton started to attention. "Oh, Paul, I'm sorry," he said, guilty now. "Yes, maybe you'd better go home. We'll be leaving in a few minutes too."

Paul nodded. "I'll see you later. Call me if anything happens."

"That goes for you too," Hamilton said.

xxxx

Clay's was still open for business as the night wore on. Perry had decided to take Della there for a late dinner, much to Vivalene's annoyance and disgust. Della looked around, impressed by the homey design and cozy atmosphere.

"I like this," she said. "You say you know the owner?"

"For a couple of years now," Perry said. "Clay's a good man." He led Della to a corner booth—the same one Hamilton and Paul had occupied.

Della slid into the seat. "So . . . why did you want to have dinner again?" she asked.

Perry sat across from her. "Because I like you," he said. "I want to know more about you.

"Why did you accept?"

"Because . . ." Della hesitated. "Because I like you too. Because I like being with you. Because I'm curious."

"Curious?" Perry said easily.

Della nodded. "If we're honest with ourselves, aren't we both here because we're wondering if two certain men have been telling the truth? Because we have a feeling, however small, that they might be? Because . . ." She looked into his eyes. "This feels right?"

Something flickered in Perry's eyes. "Yes," he admitted at last. "It does feel right."

"Then . . ." Della drew a deep breath. "Do you think Mr. Drake and Mr. Burger are right about everything?"

Perry fell silent, mulling over her query. "I should know what to think," he said. "But I don't. And I also don't know if I'm just a good old-fashioned skeptic . . . or if I'm afraid."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he was appalled. What was he doing? He had not meant to share something so deeply personal with this woman, no matter how much he enjoyed her company. And yet that, too, felt right. Anyway, it was too late to take it back now.

Della was stunned by the revelation. "The great Perry Mason afraid? Of what?"

Perry frowned. He could say _Nevermind_ and switch topics. But he had opened the door. Now, the thought of unloading at least some of his concerns sounded like a relief.

"Afraid of letting go," he finally said. "Of accepting that everything I thought I knew is a lie." He paused. ". . . Of accepting that someone I remember as my nemesis actually is a friend."

Recognition shone in Della's eyes. "You mean Mr. Burger," she realized.

Perry nodded. "For as long as we've known each other we've been at each other's throats. We've said in no uncertain terms that we don't want to be around each other any more than necessary. At least . . . that's how I remember it. And if it isn't true . . . then what have I been doing? How coldly have I been treating him these last few days?"

Della pondered on her reply. "I'm sure he would understand, given the circumstances," she said. "Just as I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

Perry nodded. "I suppose. But you see, I'm not sure _I'll_ understand." He poured a glass of water from the courtesy pitcher and offered it to Della. She accepted and he poured a glass for himself as well. "Even though I know I can't truly be blamed if I don't remember the right way of things, I can't bear the thought that I've been treating a friend as he doesn't deserve."

A quiet smile tugged at Della's lips. "You're a good man, Mr. Mason," she said. "And if it turns out that Mr. Drake and Mr. Burger _are_ right, I think I'll like working for you."

Perry regarded her in surprise. He smiled as well. "And I shall like having you work for me, Miss Street."

xxxx

The next phone call came just as Maureen was making certain Tragg was asleep in bed after a long shift at work. She snatched the receiver up after the first ring. "What do you have to tell me?" she half-barked, walking around the small table in the hall to the open doorway of the nearest room.

"It's been four days," came Judge Heyes' voice. "What kind of operation are you running? Something should have been done by now! Instead you've not only allowed Mason to reunite with his beloved secretary, you haven't done a thing as they've gone out nearly every one of the succeeding evenings!"

"Oh fiddlesticks," Maureen retorted. She had not been expecting this. It should have been her contact calling. "It's true, what I suspected—you know next to nothing about strategy! I want to lure them into a false sense of security. And if they don't get lured, then they'll be constantly tense and on edge, expecting something terrible to happen. Either way I get a good laugh."

"And while you're getting your jollies, then what?" Heyes cried. "They could start remembering! You were worried about that too. That was why _you_ told _me_ they should never meet up."

"Yes, yes, I know all that." Maureen glanced with impatience at the clock. "Do you have a point to this communication? If not, I need to drain my _darling husband_ while he's still out like a light."

"I _do_ have a point," Heyes growled. "And it has to do with your _darling husband. _I want you to think about going a little faster. Don't take several more days or even weeks. Drain as much life energy or whatever hocus pocus nonsense you're doing so he'll die sooner. Much sooner."

"How much sooner?" Maureen asked boredly.

"Tomorrow! Tonight!" Heyes wailed.

"Sorry," Maureen answered. "It won't work that fast. Besides, I don't want to rush my fun. I want to savor these days as we work towards making our spell permanent."

"Oh you fool!" Heyes burst out. "You'll savor so much and so long that everything will fall apart!"

"It won't," Maureen replied immediately. "You were complaining that nothing's been done since Mason and Street met. Well, something is going to be done. Not what you asked for, but something."

". . . Aren't you going to tell me what it is?" Heyes demanded after a moment of expectant silence.

"No. I think I'll let you be as surprised as everyone else," Maureen said. "Now goodbye."

"Don't forget that _you're_ working for _me!_" Heyes yelled. "_Not_ the other way around!"

Maureen responded by hanging up on him. "You're wrong, Judge," she sneered to herself. "You're merely a convenience of mine. I don't need you any longer. You won't be sharing the new world with me when our spell is sealed. You'll be dead, just like Lieutenant Tragg."

She went to retrieve the box from the attic.

xxxx

"Is this the last one?"

Mignon watched as Hamilton finished treating a cut on the back of her hand. "Yes," she said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Hamilton was relieved that it had not taken long to tend to Mignon's injuries. He had worried that she might be hurt worse than she appeared to be. The wounds, however, seemed to be superficial. He had taken care of all that he could see, yet wondered if there were others that she did not want him to know about.

Mignon leaned back in the passenger seat. Hamilton replaced the first aid kit in the trunk before getting in the car and starting the engine.

"Mignon, why did you do that?" he exclaimed after a brief pause. "After what happened when you were in the car, I'd think you would've used more discretion!"

"Would you?" Mignon returned.

Hamilton glanced at her. "Would I what?"

"Have used more discretion. Or would you have decided to see whether it was affected by metal alone and if a human being could pass through unharmed?"

Hamilton sighed. "Alright, you've got me," he admitted. "I might have done that."

"I felt if I did it instead, and discovered that it was dangerous whether or not I was driving my car, you would not be tempted to try it."

Hamilton gripped the steering wheel, nearly slamming on the brakes in utter shock. "Mignon!" he cried.

"I know it was foolish." She looked out at the dark California night. "I don't even quite know why I decided to do it."

Hamilton easily picked up on the jab in that remark. "Mignon, what did I do to you?" he demanded. "In your memories, I mean."

She shook her head. "It wasn't one specific incident as much as it was a series of events. And it culminated with a fierce argument and a mutual agreement to not associate with each other."

"All because of what?" Hamilton countered. "The worst thing we disagree on is the existence of the supernatural. And I can't believe _that_ would be so huge in the big picture that we wouldn't want anything more to do with each other."

Mignon sighed. "As I remember it, it went far deeper than that.

"Tell me, what made you the way you are? So skeptical, unable to take anything serious if it's the slightest bit supernatural?"

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "I don't think anything really made me that way," he said. "Well, I mean, if you're trying to ask if I had a specific experience that made me a cynic, the answer is no. Not everyone who disbelieves had some life-shattering experience that made them bitter. Some people just never see the sense or logic in it. It sounds ridiculous, even crazy, to them."

"Do you believe in God?"

"Now that really has nothing to do with it," Hamilton frowned. "Yes, actually, I do believe in God. But not everyone who believes in God also swallows everything supernatural hook, line, and sinker. In fact, in some cases it may shape why they _don't_ believe in stuff like that. I guess the way I look at it, I honestly can't believe God would've created a world where things like magic or spells run rampant. If He's supposed to be a God of order, then to me it doesn't make sense. It would result in complete chaos!"

"I don't pretend to have all the answers," Mignon said. "But there are so many things that don't make sense in this world. And there is already chaos without the aid of magic and spells."

"Exactly. So why make more?"

"I believe that magic can be used for good as well as for evil," Mignon said. "And therein lies the balance. With a proper balance you have order and not chaos."

Hamilton shook his head. "You know, Mignon, even without you remembering, this conversation is a lot like discussions we've had in the past." He smiled a bit. "Maybe that means there is hope."

"You doubted it?"

"No," Hamilton said slowly. "But it is discouraging. Paul and I were both hoping that something big would happen if Perry and Della met. Instead, there's still no indication that anyone remembers."

"Perhaps it's something that will take a great deal of time," Mignon said. "Little by little, the truth will emerge."

"Unfortunately, I have this feeling that we don't _have_ a great deal of time," Hamilton answered. "I can't believe Vivalene and her cronies are just going to stay static. Something disastrous could break at any time."

"On that point, I'm sure you're right."

Mignon perked up as they pulled up in her driveway. Another car was already there.

"Larry's home," Hamilton observed.

Mignon nodded, undoing her seatbelt. "He's probably worried."

"He's asked me several times to stop filling your head with nonsense," Hamilton said. "He thinks I've lost my marbles."

"Well." Mignon stepped out of the car, a slight smile playing on her lips. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still sane."

Hamilton stared in surprise. He snapped back to his senses, exiting the vehicle to accompany Mignon to the porch. She waited for him before proceeding up the walkway.

"Will you be coming in for a few minutes?" she asked.

"Thank you, but I shouldn't," Hamilton said. "I was going to talk with the woman impersonating Tragg's wife."

Mignon's eyes flickered with worry. "You might not be safe going there alone. Maybe Larry should go with you."

"I'll be fine," Hamilton assured her. "Larry would never go for that, anyway. He might say something that would make it worse."

Mignon sighed. "Then I suppose I'll wait to hear from you."

They stepped onto the porch and she searched her purse for her keys. Before she could locate them the door opened and Larry stood in the lighted doorway. "Mother!" he cried. "Where have you been?"

"I've been out at the county line," Mignon said.

Larry whirled to stare at Hamilton. "Mr. Burger, what have you been dragging my mother into?" He gestured at the assortment of cuts and bandages. "She's hurt!"

Hamilton flinched. "Larry, I never want to get your mother into anything dangerous," he said.

"It isn't his fault, Larry," Mignon said. "I got myself hurt." She stepped inside.

"But you were doing something for him, weren't you?" Larry exclaimed.

"Larry, that's enough." Mignon's voice had gone stern. "I was doing something for all of us. Don't you understand?"

"No, I don't!" Larry shot back. "Mr. Burger's been telling you these crazy stories and you believe all of them!"

"Nevermind," Hamilton interrupted. "I need to go now. Please don't argue on my account." He turned, heading down the steps.

A knife flew out of the darkness, slamming into a wooden post not more than six inches from his head. He whirled, his eyes wide. Mignon cried out in horror.

Larry ran out on the porch. The sound of footsteps flew over the grass in the darkness. In a moment they stopped and a car motor roared to life. The mysterious assailant had fled.


	9. Attack

**Notes: Thank you to everyone who has been showing interest! I wish I could reply to everyone who reviews. I enjoy interacting with fellow fans. I try to reply personally to all signed reviews where possible. Sometimes it isn't. If I haven't been able to contact you of late, please know that I continue to greatly appreciate your thoughts! I hope everyone will continue to enjoy this story.**

**Chapter Nine**

"This has been a wonderful evening. Thank you, Mr. Mason."

Perry smiled. "You're quite welcome, Miss Street. I was about to thank _you._"

He glanced at Della. He was driving her home after their time together. Although she had been attentive all evening, now she seemed a bit occupied. And it did not take long to see why. Several red-and-blue lights were flashing on a side street Perry had chosen to drive down.

"What happened here?" Della gasped.

"I don't know," Perry frowned. He was about to drive on past when a familiar man gave him pause. "Why, it's Mr. Burger!"

Della leaned forward. "It is!" she realized. "Mr. Mason, we should stop."

"I agree." Perry pulled over to the curb. He and Della got out, walking across the street to where the cars were gathered in front of a modest house.

"What happened?" he called.

Hamilton looked up with a start from where he was talking to an exhausted Lieutenant Tragg. "Perry, Della," he said in surprise.

"Oh, everything's fine here, Counselor," Tragg said. "Except for the part about someone trying to shish-kabob our district attorney." He nodded to where police photographers were snapping pictures of the knife in the post.

Della was horrified. "Mr. Burger, are you alright?"

"They missed me by a few inches," Hamilton said. "We don't know who it was."

"Someone hired by Vivalene," Perry said. He was not sure why he said it or if he even fully believed it, but it came out all the same. And somehow it sounded right.

Hamilton started. "Do you know something about this, Perry?" he asked, his eyes filled with questions.

"No, I don't," said Perry. "But you insist that Vivalene is out to get us. You're probably at the top of her hit list."

"I think she wants to torture me instead of killing me," Hamilton said. "Unless she's given up and just wants me dead before I can encourage you any more." He looked from him to Della. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

"Not really," Perry said. "There's some slight sensations, but that's all."

Della nodded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burger," she said in all sincerity.

"It's alright," Hamilton said, although he looked disappointed. "You can't help it if you can't remember."

Tragg stood to the side, frowning at their conversation. He was stubborn, not wanting to accept that any of this nonsense was real or could be. Perhaps, really, deep down he was afraid of its truth—but for a somewhat different reason than what Perry had cited to Della.

If everything Hamilton was saying was genuine, then what about Tragg's wife? Was she truly dead? Had someone slipped into her place?

He had not wanted to admit it, even to himself, but he had picked up on some strange behavior from Maureen of late. Sometimes she seemed cooler. Sometimes he almost had the feeling that she was putting on an act, that she did not really love him. Still, the moments passed and she was loving again and Tragg put aside all thoughts that anything was wrong. But they gnawed at his heart nevertheless.

All he really knew was that if he had lost his wife once, he did not want to lose her again. He did not know that he could even bear to go through it a second time. The house was so empty without her.

What was he saying? _Did_ he remember? Was some part of him awakening to the cruel memories of coming home and not finding her there waiting?

No. No, that was not possible. He was _not_ remembering. Maureen was alive. She had always been alive. She had never died. And she still loved him. Any time he thought she did not, he was imagining things, probably brought on by Hamilton's fairytales. They were warping his mind.

"Well," he said, snapping his notepad closed as he returned to the present, "I think we've done all we can do here for now. Mr. Burger, do you have somewhere else you can go tonight? I doubt you should be alone at your house."

"I could take out a hotel room," Hamilton said, without much hope. Their enemies most likely could and would find him anywhere. Right now he was not sure whether the knife was a warning or a failed attempt to kill him.

"Then I suggest you do it," Tragg said gruffly.

"Lieutenant," Perry interrupted, "will you look into what I said?"

"What was that? . . . Oh. That Vivalene hired someone?" Tragg shook his head. "Mason, I'm surprised at you. Such disloyalty to your secretary isn't like you. And now suddenly, because of fables told to you by not only your friend Drake but your archenemy Mr. Burger, you turn against her?"

Perry looked to him, unshaken. "I believe even fables deserve a fair examination, Lieutenant. I find it strange that you, being Mr. Burger's friend, won't even consider that what he's saying has any merit."

"He may be a friend, but that doesn't mean I think there's merit in everything he says. And that's his own policy too, I believe." Tragg gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "He's told Mrs. Germaine more than once that there's no value in her religious beliefs."

Hamilton's mouth fell open. "What?" He spun around to face Mignon. She would not meet his gaze. "That isn't true!" he protested in desperation. "I don't believe in voodoo, but I'd never say something like that! Mignon, I respect that you believe in it."

She raised her eyes. "Lieutenant Tragg exaggerates," she said. "In my memories you did say that, but it was just once."

Hamilton swallowed hard. ". . . When we decided not to associate any more," he realized.

Mignon nodded. "Yes."

Hamilton went to her. "Mignon, I am so sorry." The sincere sorrow was obvious in his eyes. "I don't blame you for not wanting anything to do with me. But please believe me, Mignon—it didn't happen. I never said that."

Mignon looked down. "I want to believe you." She met his gaze. "I don't know that I can just yet. Maybe soon."

It was the best Hamilton could hope for at this point, he supposed. "Maybe," he agreed.

Della looked to Perry, uncomfortable. "Maybe we should go," she said. "This is too private. I feel like we're intruding."

Perry nodded. "I think you're right. There's not much more we can do here anyway."

Tragg watched as Perry took Della's arm to guide her away. "It's my duty to advise you both to be careful," he said. "After all, someone tried to kill you first, Mason."

"That isn't something that can be easily forgotten," Perry said. "We'll be careful, Tragg."

Della waited until they were out of earshot to speak again. "I feel sorry for Mr. Burger." She shook her head. "He looks so . . . so _sad. _I can't believe he doesn't believe everything he's been saying."

"Oh, he believes it," Perry said. "The problem is no one else does."

"Not even you, Mr. Mason?" Della returned. "Even after saying your secretary might be involved?"

They reached the car and Perry held the door open for her. "I still don't know, Miss Street," he said. "Even after that."

"Maybe you do, deep down," Della said, "and the problem is just like you said—you're afraid."

Perry shut the door and went around to the other side of the car. "That's quite an accusation," he said as he eased himself inside. "That I might already have the answer, I mean. It was just at dinner when we both talked about our doubts. Are yours starting to fade?"

Della pondered on the query. "I think they might be starting to," she said.

"Because of how sad Mr. Burger looked?" Perry interjected. "He could be having a delusion."

"I don't believe that," Della said. "But I'm not changing my mind only because of him." She smiled. "A lot of it has to do with you, Mr. Mason. In fact, the largest part."

"I'm honored," Perry said, smiling too.

He was just about to start the engine when a tremor shook the street. Both he and Della froze. Did they need to prepare for an oncoming earthquake? Minor ones were so commonplace, but this felt more dangerous—as though it was a prelude for something bigger. Still, in a moment the trembling diminished and ceased as mysteriously as it had come.

Della gripped her purse. "That was a surprise," she said.

"Just another night in California," Perry said.

The ground was still growling and rumbling under the surface. Perry lingered, his hand on the keys. If this kept up, it might become unsafe for them to drive away. They might have to take shelter at the Germaine house. At last, however, the earth seemed to calm itself. Perry turned over the engine and carefully departed.

Mignon had caught herself on the porch railing as the property shook. Hamilton looked to her in concern as he gripped the railing with one hand. Her conflicted eyes surprised him. "What is it?" he asked. "It's just an earthquake—a small one at that."

Mignon stared into the distance. High above them the sky—or maybe the transparent case in which they were trapped—was flickering wildly, as though threatening to burst. "I wonder if that's truly all it is," she mused.

"What are you talking about?" Hamilton exclaimed. "What else could it be?"

"Perhaps something has been upset in the balance of this bubble," Mignon said. "It's behaving oddly."

"Is that good or bad?" Hamilton was not about to let down his guard. He would rather chuckle quietly about this, but he could not afford to think for certain that there was nothing to it.

"I don't know," Mignon said. "Possibly good, since this entire plot is evil. Another wrench may have been thrown into their plans."

"You mean like someone remembering?" Hamilton could not keep the hopeful inflection out of his voice.

"That could be," Mignon said, noncommittal. "Or maybe at least deciding to try."

Hamilton could do little more than hope it was true. But he also wished that Mignon would make that same momentous decision. He was trying to push aside his own hurt in the face of getting everything back to normal, but he could not hide it all. He felt as though he had lost every close friend he had once had.

xxxx

Maureen was awake, sitting up at the kitchen table when Tragg came in. "What happened?" she asked. "That must have been a terribly important call, to get you out of bed in the middle of the night."

"It was," Tragg said, tossing his hat and coat on the rack before going to her. "Someone tried to kill Mr. Burger."

"No!" Maureen got up, frowning. "There's been an epidemic of that going around. Arthur, maybe you should stay out of it. You could be next."

"I'm not going to stay out of it," Tragg countered. "I deal with danger every day, Maureen. It just comes with the territory. Besides, Hamilton Burger is my friend, no matter what kinds of outrageous stories he tells. I want to find who's out to get him."

Maureen sighed. "I know, Arthur, but . . ." She shook her head. "Nevermind." She started to walk past, but stopped. "Oh, did you feel that earthquake a while ago?"

Tragg nodded. "It was nothing," he said. "It probably didn't even register on the Richter scale."

"That's where you're wrong, Arthur. It was something. Most assuredly it was something. And it registered on a far more important scale."

Tragg narrowed his eyes. There was something about Maureen's tone of voice that he did not like at all. It was almost as though she was angry. Danger seemed to be dripping from every word. "Maureen, what are you getting at?" he demanded.

She turned back to face him. In her hands she held a strange and unfamiliar box. Underneath the lid, a purple substance was swirling.

Tragg took a step back. "What have you got there?" he asked in displeasure.

"I'm sorry, Arthur." Maureen stepped forward, not sounding the least bit sorry. "I didn't want to have to do this yet, but certain events are moving too fast for us. That wasn't an ordinary earthquake."

"What?" Tragg scoffed. "Maureen, what kind of nonsense are _you_ saying now?"

She went on as though she had not heard him. "I know it wasn't, because the dark power in this box threatened to escape when it happened. And that can't be allowed."

She jerked the lip up without another word. The purple strands flew out, encircling Tragg as he stared in disbelieving shock. The more he tried to extricate himself, the more they tightened their somehow physical grip. And he could not even try to fight for long. Something about their power was quickly weakening him, almost as if he was being put under a strong anesthesia. But he struggled for consciousness with all his might.

"_Maureen!"_ he screamed. It was a cry saturated in betrayal.

The last thing he saw before his eyes sank closed was his wife's cruel and sadistic smirk.

xxxx

Andy sighed, thrusting aside the latest forms and papers he had to look over and sign before the night was out. He ran a hand through his already out-of-place hair, sending it all the more prominently into his right eye.

"Why did I ever decide I wanted this job?" he grumbled to the room.

He paused. It was odd, but suddenly he was not sure of the answer. He could not even clearly recall when he had become the principal. It was as though he had always held that position. And of course that was impossible.

Slowly he leaned back into the couch. He still had some bruises from the abduction the other night. But in spite of how insane that experience had been, something about the action and the danger felt familiar to him. He had clobbered that enemy quite soundly. Where had he learned that? It was not the sort of skill an elementary school principal needed to rely on.

A bit of a smile sneaked over his features. "A police lieutenant, huh?" he said, again addressing nothing other than the room and the furniture and the crackling fire in the hearth.

He gazed up at the ceiling. What Paul Drake was telling was so fantastic it could not be real. It defied all logic and sense. And yet there were things that did not fit well if it were _not_ true.

How did he explain Della's growing fixation with that lawyer Perry Mason? She had told Andy that she had felt something of their connection before Paul had ever come into the picture. That was what had made his words mean something to her.

They were still seeing each other. Andy was not sure what to make of it at all. He had wondered if he should advise Della to leave it alone. But at the risk of sounding cliché, this seemed to be bigger than any of them. Perry and Della were drawn to each other. Andy had observed it very clearly, and he had not been the only one to do so.

Della had been making waves at the school the last few days. The other teachers were in awe, some even jealous, that she had struck up an association with someone as famous and prominent as Perry Mason. But she did not care what they thought about it.

Paul had come to see Andy earlier that day, asking him how he felt now that he had had time to digest what was happening and what Paul had said. Andy had not even known what to tell him. He still did not know that he believed, or ever could; yet on the other hand he doubted he could say he did _not_ believe.

A glance at the clock told him that he had to put aside all such foolish thoughts. He would be a zombie tomorrow if he did not finish up here and get to bed. But try as he might, he could not concentrate on the school papers when he went back to them. They blurred before his eyes.

Instead, all he could think about was a field trip the school had gone on some time ago. It had been to a large, private museum in a rich eccentric's house. The man had worn his hair to his shoulders, but had been very clean-cut and stylish. And he had borne a strange and unsettling smirk, almost as if he had known something that no one else there had.

"Mr. Vann," Andy breathed. The man matched Paul's basic description of their missing thief. Andy knew him by a different name, he thought, but offhand he could not remember what it was.

From what else he did recollect, Mr. Vann was wealthy enough to control many of the politicians and other public officials in the county. Of course, that was mainly rumor without provable fact. But Andy could believe it. And now he was wondering if Mr. Vann controlled Judge Heyes among his other subjects.

Andy got up, heading out of the living room and into his private office. He had to find the file on that field trip. There should be a copy of it in his filing cabinet. And if not there, he could tap into it via the school's network.

If all else failed, he would try to contact Della. Maybe she would remember the name the man was going by.

xxxx

The thoughts were spinning in Hamilton's mind as he drove down the streets of Los Angeles. He was heading for maybe a hotel room, maybe his house; he had not decided yet. Or maybe he would try again to catch Maureen. Lieutenant Tragg might be back at the station, freeing his wife for the talk Hamilton wanted to have with her.

He turned a corner. There had not been any more strange seismic activity. The sky or the bubble had long ago calmed as well. The night was cold and dark. And although he found Mignon's explanation hard to swallow, it was a fact at any rate that the weather bureau was puzzled. There were no indications that the plates had been creating an earthquake of any size tonight.

Hamilton sighed to himself. Here he was, trying desperately to get everyone to believe him about their lost memories, and he could not even fully accept all possible levels of supernatural activity that might be abounding on this case. Just how much logic was he going to have to abandon to get everything back to normal?

And if . . . _when_ that happened, would he ever be able to dismiss strange and supernatural things with as much ease as he had up to this point? Had his outlook been permanently altered? He could not even say. He wanted to continue to deny that certain things were possible, yet after what he had seen and experienced, could he, in all honesty?

Somehow, while lost in his soliloquy he had driven right to Tragg's house. The lights were still on, he noted. But Tragg was probably home; his car was in the driveway. Maybe Hamilton would just drive on by tonight. He could not very well have a candid conversation with Maureen if her husband was around.

Only . . . what was that flashing purple glow? It looked so similar to what had come out of the box, in what seemed another lifetime ago. He parked, leaning forward to stare at it more.

The scream from inside the house chilled his blood. Without wasting another second he sprang out of the car and ran to the porch. "What's going on in there?" he yelled, pounding on the door. "Tragg, what's wrong?" The door was locked. Undaunted, he kicked it in.

The sight that met his eyes stabbed him with horror and disbelief. Tragg was collapsing to the floor, enveloped by several misty purple tendrils anchored in a familiar metal box. And holding the box while standing over him with a satisfied sneer was Maureen.

Hamilton did not make a habit of physically attacking women. He was a gentleman even with the vilest of females. But despite his skepticism over the supernatural it was obvious that Maureen was responsible for whatever was happening to her husband. And she was so involved with it that even the sound of the door banging against the wall did nothing to rouse her from her abominable task. Hamilton had to break the . . . _spell,_ or whatever it was.

He ran forward, grabbing Maureen from behind. She gave an outraged cry and fought back, sending them tumbling to the floor as their balance was lost. The attack on Tragg forgotten, she struggled and flailed against Hamilton. "Let me go!" she shrilled. "What right do you have, barging into our house this way?"

Hamilton held fast. "What right do _you_ have, hurting your husband?" he snapped back. "Or whatever he is to you. I know the truth. I know you're not really his wife!"

Tragg's eyes opened just slightly. "What . . . what are you doing?" he moaned. "Don't hurt her!"

That only made Hamilton angrier. "Look at him, still worried about you even after whatever it was you were doing to him!" he burst out. "You don't deserve him. He's always been devoted to the _real_ Maureen."

Maureen was not about to answer any questions or accusations. At last she closed the box and lashed out, striking his hands with it. Hamilton cried out, his grip loosening. Maureen pulled free and got up, running for the door. It banged shut after her.

Hamilton's eyes narrowed as he watched her go. She would have to get away for now. Tragg needed help.

He sat up on the floor, pushing back the burning pain in both his hands. "I'm just lucky they're not broken," he muttered to himself. That box had been _hard._

He reached out, his right hand trembling as he laid it on Tragg's shoulder. "Tragg! What happened?" he demanded. "How bad are you hurt?"

Tragg shuddered, trying to look up at him. His eyes were glazed. "Mr. Burger, I . . . I don't understand," he choked out. "Maureen was . . . she was trying to hurt me. Why?"

"That wasn't Maureen," Hamilton said bitterly. He took Tragg's wrist, checking his pulse. It was racing. "Tragg, I know it's hard, but you have to calm down," he pleaded. "At this rate you might have a heart attack or . . ."

Tragg seemed not to hear. "And now she's gone," he said, the anguish twisting his voice. "She won't be coming back, will she?"

"I don't know," Hamilton said in all honesty. "I hope she won't. She's hurt you enough." He loosened Tragg's tie and the top button of his dress shirt.

Tragg's look was accusatory. "You chased her away," he said. "It's because of you that she's left and I've lost her a second time!"

Hamilton flinched. Tragg was delirious and surely did not mean it, but that knowledge did not curb the hurt he felt. "She was killing you!" he cried. "You admitted yourself that she was hurting you. I was trying to save you from her!"

Tragg gave a sad sigh. "Yes, I know," he said, the fog over his mind clearing for one moment. "But . . . even with what she was doing, she's . . ." His eyes started to close. "She's all I have left of Maureen." He fell limp.

Hamilton panicked. "Tragg!" he exclaimed. "Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me?" He bent down, desperate as he searched for breath. Tragg was still alive, but his breathing was pained. His pulse, slowing at last, was probably slowing too much.

Hamilton pulled out his phone, dialing 911 in one swift motion. As he talked with the dispatcher, he could only pray that help would arrive soon.

And that they would know what to do when they came.

xxxx

The doctors at Central Receiving Hospital were baffled. As far as they could tell, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg had collapsed from utter, sheer exhaustion. He had also suffered an immense emotional shock, which was explained easily enough by Hamilton telling them that Tragg's wife had wanted him hurt. He had been unable to tell what he had actually seen, but he had tried to say enough to make Maureen's guilt very clear. He did not want her to be allowed to see Tragg, if she came to finish whatever heartless job she had started.

He leaned forward in the waiting room, gazing at the floor. He felt so helpless. What now? Would Tragg live? Would he . . . would he _die,_ with hardly anyone remembering their true connections to him?

What on earth had Maureen been doing to him? And where had she taken the box? He would not care about her location save for that box. They needed it. They had to figure out how to use it to get everything back to normal.

Had he done the right thing, to let her go? Maybe he could have caught her, had he gone immediately. But he had been so worried about Tragg, lying so still on the floor. How could he have left? What if that would have made the difference between life and death and Tragg would have been beyond help upon Hamilton's return?

What would happen to all of them with that box still in their enemy's hands?

"How is he?"

He looked up with a start at the quiet, concerned voice. Della was standing in front of him, her gloves in one hand. Of all people, he had not expected to see her right now. He was grateful, of course. But he was also surprised.

"He's . . ." He shook his head. "They say he needs rest to get back his strength. A lot of rest. But the shock he went through was so harsh, they're . . . they're not sure if he'll get to that point."

Della gasped. "Oh no. I'm so sorry."

Hamilton sighed. "He's strong and stubborn. I can't believe he won't pull through this." He knew he was trying to convince himself more than her. He had no way of knowing if this shock was too much for Tragg to endure. Tragg had been so convinced that his wife was alive. His last words had indicated that perhaps now he knew and accepted the truth, yet was still unable to part with even a faux Maureen. What would that do to him?

"Then I'm sure he'll make it," Della said kindly.

Hamilton studied her inquiringly. "Are you here alone?" he wondered.

"Oh! I came with Mr. Anderson and his cousin Jimmy," Della explained. "You see, Mr. Anderson called me tonight wanting to ask me something. And Jimmy came to his house right while we were on the phone, to tell Mr. Anderson about Lieutenant Tragg. He was going to the hospital and . . . well, I asked to come." She shifted, awkward. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Hamilton said. ". . . Oh." He stood, running a hand through his hair. "Where are my manners tonight. Please sit down." He gestured at the chairs.

"Thank you." Della sat, watching him in concern. "How are you?" she asked as he sat next to her.

He blinked. "Me? I'm not the one in the hospital bed."

"I think the family and friends suffer just as much as the person hurt," Della said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but was hesitant.

Hamilton shrugged. "Well, I'm alright," he said. "I'm just angry. That two-faced Maureen impostor did this to him!" His eyes narrowed. "And I'm going to make sure she's caught and locked away."

"I'm sure she deserves it," Della said.

Hamilton nodded. He had not told anyone yet that she had had the box with her. He wanted to talk about it with Paul first, in private. And he also wanted to tell Mignon. He had tried to call her, feeling that she needed to know in spite of the unseemly hour. But Larry had answered and had insisted he was not going to wake her up at any time that night. Perhaps it was for the best; Mignon certainly needed to sleep. Waiting a few hours longer to tell her would surely not change much about their situation.

Again Della hesitated. ". . . You said that Lieutenant Tragg is a friend of all of ours, didn't you?" she asked finally. "Mine and Mr. Mason's and Mr. Drake's and Mr. Anderson's?"

"Yes," Hamilton nodded. "I called Perry and Paul. They should be coming in too." He frowned, peering at her. "What is it?"

Della looked embarrassed. "What about you and I?" she queried. "Are we friends?"

Hamilton was stunned. "Yes," he said again. "It might not always seem like it, but we're friends."

"I'm sorry I don't remember," Della said in complete sincerity. "I wish I could."

"It's alright," Hamilton said. "Maybe soon."

"Maybe," Della agreed. "But I'd like to try to renew that friendship now, tonight." She looked into his eyes. "You look like you could use one."

An amazing sense of relief and release washed over him. Della did not remember, yet she also did not have anything against him in her false memories. He would not have to listen to any other accusations tonight.

"I could," he confessed, his voice cracking from both the strain and his gratitude. "Thank you."


	10. Eruption

**Notes: Trying to figure out how Paul and Hamilton would react to each other has been a puzzle from the start. They rarely ever interacted on the series, and the great majority of the handful of times Paul ever mentioned Hamilton, it was in a derogatory way. That's pretty much all I've had to go on. That, and Hamilton's reluctance to prosecute Paul in season 3's **_**Paul Drake's Dilemma.**_** I've always tried to write their interaction with a certain undercurrent of tension, expecting that someday it would erupt. That's how I finally ended up with this chapter as it is.**

**Chapter Ten**

"_She had the box?"_

Hamilton got up, facing the frustrated Paul in the private lounge where they had gone to talk. He was still in the middle of his explanation concerning Tragg's injuries. "Yes, she had the box," he said. "She hit me with it and ran out the door. I couldn't go after her without further compromising Tragg's well-being."

"Or maybe you were just too dazed from the hit," Paul retorted.

"She hit my hands so I couldn't hold onto her," Hamilton said, a noticeable edge to his voice. "What are you trying to say, Drake? That I'm using my friend as an excuse because I'm too embarrassed to say that she stunned me?"

Paul rocked back, fixing him with a hard look. ". . . No," he said at last. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm sorry." He turned away, his shoulders slumped. "I guess the stress of all this is just getting to us both."

"I guess." Hamilton shoved his hands in his pockets.

"So what now?" Paul exclaimed with a wild gesture. "We don't even know who Maureen really is. Without knowing that, we won't know where to look. She wouldn't go anyplace where she'd be expected to turn up as Maureen."

"Della and Andy told me something interesting," Hamilton said. "They both remember this field trip the school kids went on, to a big mansion someone had converted into a private museum. And from their description of the man, he could be our missing Mr. Vann."

Paul perked up, spinning around to face him again. "Really?"

Hamilton nodded. "The problem is, he wasn't going by that name. Neither Della nor Andy remember the name he was using. As our luck would seem to have it, the file on the trip has gone missing, too."

"And there's a ton of houses around here that have been converted into museums," Paul groaned. "I guess I know what I'll be doing tomorrow." Suddenly getting an idea, he asked, "Do they remember if he had some particular interest?"

"Unfortunately, they said his collection had a little bit of everything," Hamilton said.

"Great, just great."

Paul looked to the door. The doctor had said they could talk in the lounge as long as no one needed to use it. And he had said he would come and get them if there was any change in Tragg's condition. The door remained closed, with no sound of footsteps outside at all.

A sidelong glance at Hamilton revealed that he was watching the door too. Paul turned to look at him more closely. Although Burger would never want it seen, especially by Paul, his eyes were filled with quickly changing emotions. He was worried. He was tense. He had hope. In that moment he looked vulnerable.

Paul looked away. It made him too uncomfortable, to see his sometimes-enemy like that. It was not how he thought of Hamilton Burger at all.

Or perhaps . . . was it possible that what made him the most uncomfortable was that Burger had showed that side to him, inadvertency notwithstanding?

"I'm sorry about Tragg," Paul mumbled at last. "The doctors really don't know what to think about his condition?"

"No, they don't," said Hamilton. "I couldn't tell them what I saw back at the house. I'm not even sure _what_ I saw. But they're saying Tragg's sick and exhausted and suffered a terrible shock, all of which I agree with. He was delirious after it happened." He muttered the last part.

"What did he say?" Paul frowned.

Hamilton stiffened. He had not been quite aware that Paul had even heard him. And he was not sure that he wanted to share anything further—at least not about Tragg's accusations.

He and Paul had been thrown into this situation out of necessity, not choice. He had sometimes been exasperated or frustrated with Paul, yet he held nothing against him. But he knew Paul was still not sure what to make of him. Paul might think he was reining in his feelings, but Hamilton could tell quite well. He would be lying if he said he did not wish that someone else had been the other person to remember, someone who was on better terms with him. It was no different than what he was sure Paul wished.

". . . He indicated he finally realized Maureen is a fraud," he said at last, determining that that much was important and that Paul deserved to know. "But I don't know if he'll reject her when he wakes up."

"Why wouldn't he, after what she did?" Paul cried.

"Paul . . ." Hamilton looked at him, tired and sad. He was not even trying to hide it. "He's always been devoted to Maureen. He was devastated when she died. I'll be honest, I was worried about him when it happened. I wasn't sure if he'd be able to get through it. I couldn't seem to do much for him, but his niece Lucy helped a lot. I watched her bring him back to himself over time.

"Now he thought he had Maureen back—or that she'd never died at all. Maybe he started to get some inkling of the truth before or when he was attacked. If he did, and remembers her death, this is like losing her a second time. And as if that wasn't bad enough, this impostor hurt him physically as well as emotionally. I'm afraid he might go into denial, or worse—he might fully acknowledge she's a fake but want to stay with her anyway, just to be around someone who at least looks like Maureen and can apparently act like her enough to not always be detected."

Paul stared at him for a long moment. "I never thought we'd have to deal with something like that," he said. "I thought once he knew she was a phony there wouldn't be any more trouble!"

"Maybe there won't be. I can't say for sure, not until I can talk to him when he's lucid. I'm just warning you what _might_ happen." Hamilton walked to the opposite side of the room.

"Last I checked, you're not a psychiatrist," Paul said.

"No, but I know what he said to me before he passed out. That's what made me worry." The edge was back in Hamilton's voice.

Paul probably should have taken the hint and backed off. Instead he pressed forward. He was right—the stress was getting to them both. And right now he could not seem to hold his tongue. What had happened to Tragg had been the last straw.

"You know, it seems like you're not telling me everything that's been going on," he objected. "What else have you been keeping back? And why? Don't you trust me? How are we going to solve this if we can't even trust each other?"

Hamilton went rigid. Paul had struck the worst possible nerve at this point. When Hamilton whirled to face Paul, unbridled fury was twisting his features. "I've told you everything you need to know!" he shot back.

"Then you _are_ holding something back!" Paul cried. "Why don't you let me be the judge of whether I need to know it?"

"It wouldn't help. Look, Drake, you think I don't want to work with you. But did you ever stop to think _why?_" Without waiting for a reply Hamilton barreled on. "Don't you think I know how you feel about me?"

Paul was too worked up to stop to feel surprised. "Don't _you_ know why I feel that way?" he boomed back.

"Of course!" Hamilton pointed at Paul. "It's the same reason behind what Mason's been saying lately. And Mignon. And Tragg." He jabbed himself in the chest with his forefinger. "_I'm_ the bad guy here. That's what Vivalene wanted. Well, she's succeeded. The only people who don't hate me are the ones who don't remember anything about any of us! And _you've_ hated me from the start, long before we knew anything about a box or a slab or a bubble over Los Angeles!

"It figures that we're the ones who remember. We'd each rather be working with just about anyone else. Instead we're forced to rely on each other. This has to place with the worst team-ups in history."

He stepped closer, his voice lowering but growing taut. "You're so anxious to know what important secrets I've been holding back. Well, I'll tell you. The earth-shattering information I've kept from you is some of the wild accusations Tragg and others have made about me."

At last ceasing his tirade, he stepped back. Paul was staring at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. ". . . What?" he stammered at last.

Hamilton said bitterly, "I didn't see any point telling that to someone who wouldn't care in the first place." He turned, walking back to where he had previously stood across the room.

Paul stayed where he was, shaken by the outburst. He had expected Burger's temper to snap at some point. He had not expected what he had just been told. His thoughts turned over themselves as he tried to work out an answer. What could he say to something he had never thought he would hear?

". . . I was out of line," he said at last. "I was angry and I wasn't thinking and it just came out."

Hamilton shrugged, not turning around. "I think you _were_ thinking," he said. "I think you were saying what you've felt all along. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that _you_ don't trust _me._"

Paul opened his mouth, then closed it. Was that right? He did not trust Burger?

. . . That _was_ right, wasn't it.

"I guess I don't," he realized. "When we're on cases, I never know what you're going to come up with next or if Perry or I'm going to get in trouble and end up losing our licenses. I know you're just doing your job. Or I've said I know it. Maybe deep down, I still think you have something against either or both of us.

"There was a time when I wasn't even sure how much integrity you have. I thought you'd be capable of bugging Perry's office to find out what was going on and what he was up to. Perry came out strong against that idea, by the way. He always knew you better than I did." _Or he used to, anyway._

Paul went on, "Even after you and Perry starting chumming around, I was suspicious. I wondered what you were up to or when all heck would break loose. I didn't think you could be a real friend to him. I didn't think you'd _want_ to be.

"Okay, I thought you were using him! That's the truth. I tried not to feel that way. It took a long while, but I finally started to warm up to you a bit. But, I'm sorry to say, I guess there was still that nagging suspicion in the back of my mind."

Finally Hamilton turned back. "Well, so at last it's all out in the open," he said with a final gesture of weariness and irony. "No more of this pussy-footing around or lying to yourself."

He walked halfway to Paul and stopped. "You know, I came out and admitted to you that I'm not perfect," he remarked. "Sometimes I get frustrated with you and with Perry. I've lost my temper and made a fool of myself, sometimes even in court. I told you I'm not proud of it. That's still true. And I'll tell you something else. Even at my worst, I'd never sacrifice justice to get back at either of you or even to catch you on those law-bending excursions Perry is so fond of. When I go off into orbit, I come back to Earth before too long. At least, I hope so.

"I care about Perry. I don't want him to get disbarred. And I don't want you to lose your license." His shoulders slumped and he mumbled, "I care about you too."

Somehow, saying that and seeing Paul's gaping response seemed to give him a feeling of empowerment. Encouraged, he exclaimed, "Don't you know that? I didn't want to prosecute you the time you were framed for murder. Of all the times I've hated my job, I've never hated it more than I did then."

Paul was staring again. He shook his head as he turned away, shamed. "I didn't know that," he confessed. "I could tell you didn't want to be there, but I didn't know why."

"I'd feel the same if I had to prosecute you or Perry for bending or breaking the law, or if I'd been forced to charge Della as an accessory to murder. I don't like prosecuting people I know." Hamilton paused. "No. What I mean is, I don't like prosecuting my friends."

Paul felt all the worse now. "I've never thought of you as a friend," he said. "And you're saying you . . ." He swallowed hard. "Hoo boy. The one eating crow tonight is me. I've never felt like such a fool."

Hamilton walked over to him. "I guess we each have a lot to learn," he said. "But you're right, you know—we can't solve this problem together if we can't even trust each other. So, if that's the way it's going to be, we'd better part ways now."

Paul jerked up with a start. "We'll never make it on our own, either!" he declared. "You say Vivalene's been trying to make you the bad guy. She probably knows that if we all work together, we'll win. So let's not give her any satisfaction." He shifted. "If you'll give me another chance, maybe . . . maybe we can start over."

Hamilton was amazed. "You _want_ to?"

"You don't know me too well if you think I don't want to make up for all these misconceptions I've had through the years," Paul said. "Anyway, like I said, we have a better chance against Vivalene if we stick together." He held out his hand. "Truce?"

Hamilton studied the gesture for only a brief moment before grasping Paul's strong hand with his. "Gladly," he said emphatically.

It was then that his cellphone gave a sharp ring. He jumped a mile.

"Isn't that supposed to be turned off in the hospital?" Paul blinked.

"Yes," Hamilton sighed. "I must have been so upset I forgot." He took it out and looked at the screen. "It's the Petersons' number," he gasped in surprise. Quickly he flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger?" The voice was soft, barely above a whisper. But Hamilton still recognized it as that of Howie Peterson.

"Howie, what's wrong?" he demanded. He had not been able to associate with the Petersons since this disaster had happened. According to Mrs. Peterson, after his falling out with Mignon they had decided he was a bad influence and they did not want him as Howie's godfather. He did not even know what Howie's feelings were on the matter. Mrs. Peterson had not let him speak with Howie.

That was something else he had not told Paul.

"I'm worried about Mignon," Howie said.

Hamilton tensed. "She's supposed to be home, asleep," he said. "Howie, why are you worried?"

"Because I woke up and wanted to call her, like I sometimes do when I have a bad dream," Howie said. "And I called and Larry answered. He was telling me Mignon was asleep, too, but then there was this big crash and he yelled 'What are you doing, coming in here?'"

Now Hamilton was worried too. "Did it sound like someone was breaking in the house?"

"Uh huh. And it sounded like Larry knew who it was."

Hamilton frowned deeply, exchanging a look with the bewildered Paul. "Could you hear what that person said to Larry?" he asked.

"Nope. The phone died. Mr. Burger, will you do something?" Howie pleaded.

"Of course I will," Hamilton said. "I'll call the police and go out there myself. Are _you_ alright, Howie?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm in my closet with my dumptruck." Howie paused. "Mr. Burger?"

"Yes?"

"I miss you."

Hamilton's heart twisted at the plaintive voice. "I miss you too," he said. "I'll tell you what—go back to bed and I'll let you know when I find out about Mignon."

"Okay. Bye."

Hamilton pulled the phone away from his ear and immediately began dialing the number of the police. "I thought they were going to put an officer on guard at the house!" he muttered in frustration.

Paul stared. "What's going on? I caught something about Mignon and Larry and somebody busting in the house."

"Somebody Larry might have known," Hamilton said. "Maybe someone overpowered the police guard."

"Or the cop is mixed up is this too," Paul pointed out.

Hamilton looked pained. "I hate to think that, but you're right, Paul. That's also possible."

Soon he had the desk sergeant on the phone. He explained the problem quickly, requesting a squad car be sent to the Germaines' house. He also asked for a guard to be sent to the Peterson home, just in case the intruder would see that the call came from there and go to get Howie. The sergeant agreed. Hamilton hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

"You're not going to bother turning that off?" Paul noted.

"No, because I'm leaving," Hamilton said. "I have to check on Mignon myself." He headed for the door.

"I'm coming with you," Paul determined, chasing after him.

They nearly crashed into Della in the hall when they opened the door and stepped out. "Oh, I was just coming to get you," she exclaimed. "I told the doctor I'd pass along his message."

Both men came to attention. "What is it?" Hamilton queried. Maybe it wasn't too bad of news, if the doctor was letting Della bring it. At least, he could hope so.

Della's eyes flickered with sadness. "Lieutenant Tragg is semi-conscious right now," she reported. "He keeps calling for Maureen. Sometimes he says he's sorry. Sometimes he asks why she betrayed him." She looked down. "I tried to see him, but I couldn't stay. It was just heart-breaking."

Hamilton heaved a deep sigh. "Have they had any luck finding his niece?"

"They called UCLA," Della said. "They think she's staying overnight at a cabin with some friends."

"A cabin without phone service, I bet," Paul groaned.

Della nodded. "The police were going to go up there, I think."

"I don't envy them," Hamilton remarked. "But I hope they get her down here soon. She might be able to do some good for Tragg."

"You're going to see him, aren't you?" Della said, looking from him to Paul.

Hamilton debated with himself. He did want to see Tragg, and he would definitely look in for a minute, but he doubted he would stay right now, for several reasons. "Yes, but I think I'm the last person he'll want to see," he said. "And now Mignon might be in trouble. We were going to drive out there."

"What's wrong?"

All three started at Perry's concerned voice. Paul decided to be the one to reply.

"It sounds like someone broke into Mignon Germaine's house," he said. "She and Larry might both be hurt."

Perry was further troubled. "Have the police been called?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "I'm going to look in on Tragg and then go."

"I'll start out first," Perry said. "I'd like to know what's happened there myself."

"Alright," Hamilton said as he hurried past. "I'll be glad to have you along, Perry. Excuse me."

"Don't forget to turn off your phone," Paul called after him.

Hamilton only slowed his pace enough to reach in his pocket and grab his phone to do just that.

Paul looked back to Perry and Della. "So who's staying and who's going?" he wondered.

"I think Miss Street should stay here, at least until they find Tragg's niece," Perry said.

"Because it's safer?" Della returned, saying the unsaid.

Perry paused. He had not expected that clear-cut deduction. "Well . . . yes, partially," he said. "Of course, if anything is amiss at the Germaines' house, it will probably be over with long before any of us get there."

Paul nodded. "Someone should be here anyway," he said. "But I wonder if it'd be better if it was me. Tragg might wake up more and . . ."

"And you remember things that we don't," Perry concluded.

"Something like that," Paul admitted. "Boy, you don't remember and I still can't fool you."

Perry smiled. "I remember _you,_ Paul."

Della closed her purse. "If we're going to leave, maybe we'd better hurry," she said.

"I'm still not sure I like the idea of you accompanying me, Miss Street," Perry said. "The police will likely be there when we arrive, but there could still be danger."

Della smiled. "I've experienced danger before, Mr. Mason."

Perry was gently amused. "You're stubborn," he said. "Alright, let's not waste any more time. Goodbye, Paul. Good luck holding the fort here."

"Good luck with whatever you find out there," Paul returned. "And you're probably going to incur the wrath of _Principal_ Anderson by taking Della along."

"Quite rightly too, I imagine," Perry said as he and Della walked up the corridor.

xxxx

Della was right about Lieutenant Tragg's state. When Hamilton pushed open the heavy door to his room the man was lying on his back, his head turned to the side as he gazed blankly at nothing.

"Maureen?" he weakly rasped, apparently aware that the door had opened.

Hamilton was chilled. He entered the room, letting the door close behind him. "No," he said. "It's me."

Tragg blinked, almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Burger. . . ." He grabbed for him with a shaking, clammy hand. For a moment his eyes flickered, seeming clear again as they had so briefly when he had been on the floor.

Hamilton let Tragg take hold of his wrist. "What is it?" he asked. He realized that he had not mentioned the clearing gaze to Paul either, but that had not been intentional. Now, seeing it again, he wondered what it meant.

"I'm sorry," Tragg rasped. "I'm so . . . _sorry_ for how I've treated you. And for not believing you."

"Do you believe me now?" Hamilton asked. Did he dare to hope?

"I don't know," Tragg said. He sounded vague again. His eyes were glassing over.

Hamilton reacted swiftly. "Think, Tragg, _think!_" he cried, gripping the older man's shoulder. "You have to believe me. Your life depends on it!"

"My . . . life?" Tragg repeated.

"Yes, your life. That woman posed as your wife and then tried to _kill_ you!"

Various emotions swam through Tragg's eyes. "She isn't Maureen," he said at last.

"No, she isn't." Hamilton looked at him with regret. "I'm sorry."

Tragg leaned heavily into the pillows. "Maureen is dead then," he said, staring at the ceiling. "Deep down I've really known it. And I knew that woman was a fake. I couldn't bring myself to believe it."

". . . What are you going to do?" Hamilton waited with worry for the answer. Would Tragg still remember his heart-broken words from just before he lost consciousness? Regardless of whether he did or not, would he follow through?

"I . . . don't know," Tragg said again. "I can't go back to her. I _shouldn't,_ and yet . . . I have to know why. She's my only connection to Maureen."

"She doesn't have any connection with Maureen!" Hamilton protested. "She's a cheap fraud who knows enough about your wife to pretend to be her." His voice lowered. "Tragg, it doesn't matter why. She's poison. Leave her alone, _please._ She might kill you next time."

Tragg just sighed quietly, releasing Hamilton's wrist from his grasp. "I'm sorry," he said again. He was slipping back into a state of lesser consciousness. Once again he was not likely to be responsive.

Hamilton wanted to stay, but he was also worried about Mignon. Battling with himself, he at last stepped back. "I'm sorry too," he said. "I'll be back later." He hurried for the door.

xxxx

Maureen was annoyed but undaunted. Within the concealed room she worked with both the Forbidden Box and the Slab of Reflections, chanting quietly just as Mr. Vann had taught her to do. She had lost her chance to finish the draining of Tragg, but it would still be completed. She had taken so much life energy from him already that Mr. Vann had informed her it would be possible to put him under a partial mind-control, enough so that thoughts would be whispered to him and he would believe them to be his own and follow their instructions.

She smirked in the illumination from the box. If she played her cards right she would have Tragg turning up on their doorstep, sacrificing himself willingly without really knowing why or what was going on. It was deliciously cruel. And most effective.

"This war is still on, Mr. Burger," she purred. "And the tide is about to turn."

xxxx

The police had already arrived at the Germaines' when Perry and Della pulled up for the second time that night. Della hastened to get out of the car, not waiting for Perry to open her door. She was worried. She had only met Mignon briefly, but she liked the aloof woman. And she could not bear to think of someone else Mr. Burger knew being harmed tonight. 

He was under far too much pressure as it was. He had managed to relax while sitting with her at the hospital, but as soon as Paul had come in he had tensed. She did not know what had happened to them when they had gone off to talk in private, but she was certain she had heard yelling coming from the direction of that lounge at one point.

"Della!" Perry called from behind her. "Wait!"

Della ground to a halt upon reaching the sidewalk—not so much because of the request as because of what else Perry had just said. She turned to face him in amazement. "Mr. Mason, you just called me by my first name," she announced.

Perry stared. "I did?" He stopped, mulling over his words. ". . . I did. I'm sorry for the informality, Miss Street. I was worried."

Della smiled. "I didn't say I didn't like it, Mr. Mason," she said. "Anyway, I suppose that if we're trying to break away from our false memories we should both be on a first-name basis."

The ground shook under them both. Della stumbled into Perry, who braced himself and held onto her until the quaking ceased.

"Two small earthquakes in one night," he observed.

"The sky was flickering strangely too," Della said.

She turned to look at the house. The front door was open. From this angle, she could see inside to where the living room was a shambles. And Mignon was kneeling on the floor with Larry's head on her lap. He was breathing heavily in great pain. His arms were over his stomach, making it unclear whether blood had been drawn or if he had just been viciously punched.

Worried all over again, and forgetting the tremor for the moment, Della ran forward. "Mrs. Germaine!" she cried as she got onto the porch. A police officer in the yard exclaimed in protest.

Mignon looked up at Della's call. Della drew back in sickened horror. Mignon's eyes were filled with a depth of anguish that Della could not remember ever seeing before.

"This is what was done for my attempt to help Mr. Burger," she said. "This was the price. And it is too great to pay. I cannot help him any further."


	11. Gone

**Notes: I realized that I didn't remind at the very beginning of this story that Mignon and Larry Germaine are canon characters from season 8's **_**The Fatal Fetish**_**, for anyone who might be coming in on this story and hasn't read the previous one. The backstory Hamilton relates in this chapter is my own idea, however.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Andy felt uncomfortable as he stood to the side of the hospital bed, gazing down at the unconscious man upon it. The patient was a stranger to him, as far as he knew. And yet the district attorney and that detective both insisted that Andy was like a son to him.

"Do we know each other?" Andy was embarrassed to even be asking the question, whether or not he thought he would receive a response. He did not. The only answer was the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Holding his hat in his hands, Andy turned away and began to pace the floor. "You know, several days ago I never would have believed that I would be here tonight, waiting for news on your health. I'm just a quiet, unassuming principal of an elementary school in the Valley. The stories I was told about our knowing each other have been so preposterous. And yet . . . well, things have happened that make it impossible for me to outright reject them."

He stopped walking as a tremor shook the building. Tragg was not bothered; he did not so much as stir. Then it was over just as suddenly as it had begun.

"That's been happening so much tonight," Andy muttered with a frown. He paused. ". . . And now my scars are acting up again."

One of the things that he had initially dismissed as utter nonsense was the tale about him having been shot and nearly killed by Vivalene. But when he had inquired further and asked where he had been shot, the answer had chilled him.

"_As I understand it, you were shot in the back, right about here."_ Hamilton had indicated the spot on his own back. _"And it came out here."_ He had pointed to his right side.

Andy had watched in fascinated horror. _"Here and here?"_ He had shaken his head, unable to comprehend it. _"No . . . that can't be."_

"_Why not?"_ Hamilton had retorted.

Andy's expression was probably still burned in Hamilton's mind. _"Because I have two scars in those exact locations. Scars that I've never been able to account for."_

They pained him occasionally, usually when the weather was bad. They had acted up tonight during every one of the earthquakes. As Andy moved about now, he felt somewhat stiff.

"Did I really die?" he wondered, his voice hushed. "Did my spirit wander?"

Both Hamilton and Paul had felt awkward telling that to Andy, but they had in the desperate hope that Andy would remember something about such a unique and eerie experience. He did not. However, he had not had a decent night's sleep since being told.

"I keep waking up with the feeling that someone is trying to contact me," he said, half to the unconscious man and half to the room. "I hear him calling me in my dreams, but I don't know who it is. And yet . . . I feel like I'm supposed to know." He slapped his hat against his leg. "It's the most maddening thing!"

He stared into the distance. Hamilton and Paul had also mentioned Andy's friend Otto Norden, killed in the line of duty. Andy had traveled with him during his out-of-body experience. If someone actually was trying to get in touch with him through his dreams, could it be Otto?

Or was he allowing himself to be completely taken in with these tales? He still could not fully grasp their truth. Maybe his mind was fabricating all sensations of someone attempting to make contact.

But what if it wasn't? What if it was all real, just as he had been told?

He sighed, turning away. "I don't even know why I came here," he confessed. "Maybe I was looking for some answers. But if I was, I haven't found any. Only more questions."

"Andy . . ."

He jumped a mile, whirling to stare at Tragg in wide-eyed shock. Tragg was awake again, his eyes glassy but obviously focused directly on Andy. Andy rushed back to the bedside.

"You know my name?" he said in astonishment. "How?"

Tragg paused. Confusion passed across his face. "I don't know," he said. "You . . . don't look familiar to me. And yet you say I called you by your right name?"

"Yes," Andy said. "My name is Andrew Anderson."

Tragg frowned, leaning back into the pillows. "Mr. Burger told me about you," he rasped. "That's all I know of you." He gazed into the distance. "And still I woke up with your name on my tongue, while you're right here in the room. That's an odd coincidence."

"It is, isn't it," Andy said. Suddenly he was many times more unsettled than when he had come in.

"You didn't introduce yourself when you came in, did you?" Tragg wondered.

"No," Andy said. "You weren't awake, so I didn't make an introduction."

"How strange," Tragg mused. "Strange indeed."

xxxx

Hamilton was overwhelmed. He stood with Paul in the waiting room near the Emergency entrance, watching out the darkened window for the arrival of an ambulance. Their exchange from the past few moments was playing over and over in his mind.

"_Oh! I'm glad I caught you before you could leave,"_ Paul had said several minutes ago. He had jogged up to Hamilton almost as soon as Hamilton had departed Lieutenant Tragg's room. _"You might want to sit tight here for a while."_

Hamilton had stiffened, staring at Paul in concern. _"Why? What's happened now?"_ he had demanded.

Paul had looked honestly regretful and sickened as he had replied. _"Perry just called. Apparently Larry Germaine was badly beaten. They're bringing him in to the hospital now."_

Hamilton would not be surprised if he had gone sheet-white at that news. _"How serious is it?"_ he had gasped.

"_I don't know,"_ Paul had said. _"But Perry also said Mignon was really shaken up."_

That was not a surprise. Larry was the most important thing in Mignon's life. For him to be hurt was the worst possible blow Vivalene or anyone could have dealt her.

". . . How long have you known the Germaines?"

Hamilton looked up with a start. "It's been years," he said in surprise. "I knew Mignon even before she was married."

Paul gave a low whistle. "Wow. So over twenty years then."

"Yes." Hamilton stared out the window without really seeing anything. "And she was always as stubborn and strong-willed as she is now. When I met her, she was just new to Los Angeles, trying to start out in show business. She never did make it too big in Hollywood, but she found she liked telling a story through dance better. She'd already danced some in New Orleans."

"So . . . were you two ever . . ." Paul trailed off, suddenly realizing how awkward this question was. But he had already started it and now Burger was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Well, more than friends?" Paul addressed the rest of his query to the windowsill.

Hamilton looked like he was not sure whether to be amused or appalled that Paul had asked. "No," he said. "We're good friends. We have been since shortly after we met. There's never been anything else between us."

"Oh," Paul said. Now he could not think of anything else to say.

"I was friends with her husband too," Hamilton said. "The three of us did things together a lot."

"Well, that's good," Paul said slowly. "That you all got along, I mean." He hesitated. "What about Larry?"

Hamilton blinked. "What about him?"

"Did he get along with you?" Paul clarified.

"Oh sure," Hamilton said. "I didn't see him too much, though." He sighed. "It wasn't that long after he was born that I got insanely busy. We were all pretty young then. I was trying to get started with what I wanted to do in life. And Mignon was focusing most of her attention on being Larry's mother. She gave up her career until Jack died and she needed to find a way to make a living."

"She's done pretty well for herself," Paul said.

Hamilton nodded. "I'm not even sure what her backstory is in this place," he frowned. "She's a voodoo priestess here. That's about all I know. She told me that when we were looking through her books."

"Was she always into that kind of thing?" Paul wondered.

"For quite a long time, at least," Hamilton said. "She's from New Orleans. She learned a lot about it down there. Around here, she was always involved with the Creole and voodoo communities."

"Hamilton Burger, friends with a voodoo priestess." Paul shook his head. "Now that's something I never would have pictured."

"Whether she was a priestess or not wouldn't have any bearing on if we're friends," Hamilton said.

"I know, but it still sounds kind of off-the-wall," Paul said.

"We've always disagreed on voodoo and the existence of magic, I'll tell you that," Hamilton said.

"What did Jack think?" Paul could not help feeling curious.

"Jack wasn't really into it, either, but he let her do what she wanted," Hamilton said. "Larry takes more after Jack in that respect. But he has Mignon's stubbornness."

Paul nodded. "I figured out that much."

Something caught his eye out the window. "Hey," he announced. "An ambulance is pulling up now. I think I see Mignon."

Hamilton came to immediate attention. "Yes, that's her," he declared. He hurried to the corridor. The paramedics were rushing Larry in on a stretcher, shouting instructions to each other as they entered the ER. Mignon followed behind, almost as if in a daze. She stopped in front of the closing emergency room doors, gazing through their small square windows.

Della was not far behind her, apparently having come along to try to offer support and comfort. Perry was not there. He had probably lingered behind at the house, looking for clues.

Hamilton hastened to Mignon's side. "Mignon," he started to say.

She cut him off without looking at him, instead continuing to stare blankly at the windows. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burger," she said, her voice quiet and unshakable. "I can't do any more for you. They will return and kill Larry if I try."

Hamilton rocked back. He should have expected this twist. Of course Vivalene would get to Mignon through Larry. Beating up Mignon would not likely have frightened her enough to back out. Beating up her son was more than enough ammunition to achieve the desired result.

". . . Do you know who they were?" he asked.

"No," Mignon said. Finally she turned to face him. "And if I knew, I could not tell you."

"Mignon, I'm sorry about Larry," Hamilton said—and he truly was. "I'm worried about him and I don't want him to be hurt any worse than he already is. But how can you let these people rule your lives like this? What kind of life will Larry even have in the world they're trying to make?"

"At least he will _have_ a life," Mignon said. "Mr. Burger, you don't need me. You have other associates who are helping you now." _And they will probably be targeted next._ The unspoken words hung in the air.

Hamilton ignored them. "You're wrong, Mignon," he protested. "I do need you. But it isn't because I need you to do more research for me." He looked into her eyes. "I need you to try to remember the truth. I need your support."

She hesitated for a long moment. Then, slowly, she touched his arm. "They can't force me to want them to win," she said. "I will keep trying to remember. But regardless of that, you have my support, Mr. Burger. I will be praying for your success."

"Thank you," Hamilton said in all sincerity.

Mignon walked past him to the waiting room. Hamilton watched her before turning away with a frustrated sigh. One step forward, two steps back.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burger."

He turned around at the sound of those same words spoken by another voice. Perry had come alongside Della. Both were grim and sobered.

"I knew it would be a blow to you, for Mrs. Germaine to withdraw her services," Perry continued.

"It is," Hamilton admitted, looking from him to Della and back. "But more than that, I'm furious that they've hurt Larry. This is going too far!"

Della nodded in full agreement. "I think I should go to her," she said. From her worried face, she was torn, also wanting to be there for Hamilton if she could.

Hamilton noticed and was grateful. "Yes," he said. "Mignon could use a friend right now. Please, go to her."

Della hurried past. Perry and Hamilton glanced her way, then looked back to each other.

"Where did you come from, Perry?" Hamilton wondered. "I thought you were back at the Germaines' house."

"I was following a bit behind the ambulance," Perry said. "I had to find a place to park." He sighed. "I'm afraid there wasn't much to see at the Germaines' house, other than the toppled furniture."

"Did Larry say anything?" Hamilton asked. "Howie Peterson said he sounded like he knew who was breaking in."

Perry shook his head. "Larry was in too much pain to say anything," he said. "And Mrs. Germaine didn't know who it was. She was awakened by the commotion in the living room. When she went in, two men dressed in black trenchcoats were fleeing to the door. One of them called over his shoulder, 'This is what happens to anyone who supports the district attorney in his madness. Goodnight, Mrs. Germaine.' She didn't recognize the voice."

Hamilton started to pace. "I should have guessed Vivalene would try something like this," he said. "I shouldn't have got Mignon involved!"

"Of course you should have," Perry returned. "If your words are truth, then this affects every one of us. It should be in all of our greatest interest to see that this mystery is solved."

Hamilton nodded. "I know that, but . . ." He stopped, turning to face Perry with questions in his eyes. For a split second he had forgotten that Perry did not remember. The exchange had been so natural.

Perry sighed. "I believe something strange is going on," he said. "I don't know that I believe Vivalene is involved. There isn't any proof."

"There's never any proof," Hamilton said in disgust. "But Perry, you told the police she might have hired someone to knife me!"

"And I don't know why I did," Perry said. "Tragg was right—disloyalty to my secretary isn't like me." He shook his head. "I tried to call Vivalene afterwards. She claimed she was at home with a TV dinner and that she was horrified over someone trying to kill you."

"Of course she'd say that," Hamilton muttered.

"I know what you're thinking," Perry said. "That she's not my secretary. I don't know that, either."

"But you know that being with Della feels right," Hamilton said. "Why can't you fully accept that? Why does part of you still hinge on Vivalene?" His shoulders slumped. "Nevermind. That's a stupid question. Me being a skeptic, I should understand your reasons better than some."

Perry managed a half-smirk, devoid of any real humor. "It doesn't feel so good on that side of the argument, does it."

"No, it doesn't." Hamilton frowned. "But you make it sound like it's something new to me. I'm often trying to get the court to believe the cases I'm presenting, and when you're around, I usually have a tough time of it."

"That's true," Perry mused.

"But it's not important right now," Hamilton said.

Perry nodded. "Della told me about this man with the private museum," he said. "Paul is going to investigate, I presume."

"Yes," Hamilton said, but he was distracted by what else Perry had said. "Perry, you said 'Della'!"

Perry opened his mouth to retort and closed it again. ". . . Instead of 'Miss Street', you mean," he deduced.

Hamilton nodded. "You must be feeling pretty comfortable around her."

"I am," Perry acknowledged. He gazed with thoughtfulness into the distance. "Yes, I am."

xxxx

Mignon looked up as Della approached. "Has there been any news?" she asked without hope.

Della shook her head. "I'm sorry." She came to stand with the other woman at the window. "It might be a while before we hear anything. Why don't you come sit down?"

"Thank you, no." Mignon gripped her arms. "I can't relax when Larry is hurt." A shudder went up her spine.

"It must have been horrible," Della said in sympathy.

Mignon nodded. "When I went into the living room and found him on the floor, my world collapsed around me." She wrung her hands. "I feel badly to leave Mr. Burger in the lurch, but I can't risk my son's life." She searched Della's eyes questioningly. "Do you think I shouldn't have refused to keep helping Mr. Burger?"

Della was surprised. Uncomfortable at being put on the spot, she considered her words before replying. "I think you should do what you think is best," she said at last. "Of course you wouldn't want Larry to be hurt any more." She watched Mignon, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Was Mignon having doubts herself that she had done the right thing?

Mignon sighed, walking away from the window. "I never would have thought that Hamilton Burger would come to me for help," she said. "It meant a lot to me that he was willing to set aside his pride and call on the '_vodun_ priestess'. It showed his level of desperation. Of course, then he started telling me what was wrong and I no longer knew what to think."

"I thought you believed him," Della said in surprise.

"I did," Mignon nodded. "I still do. And yet I haven't been able to let go of the way I remember the past. To think of a world where he did not hurt me and we did not have a falling out seems too incredible, too unreal. When I see the pain in his eyes it pierces me. But it does nothing to help me reject all that I remember and thought I knew."

"That would be hard for anyone," Della said. "It would take a lot of faith."

"I thought I had faith," Mignon said. "I have meditated on and prayed about what he's told me, but all I feel is troubled. That doesn't mean that it's false; it could simply be my own unrest getting in the way of my receiving an answer. I don't think I realized just how deeply Mr. Burger's unkind words have been ingrained in my heart until I became faced with the possibility that they never happened."

Della looked down. She was not sure what to say. She was not going through what Mignon was. For her part, she found it relatively easy to set aside what she had thought was true and accept that maybe something else was true instead. That stirring, that longing, in her heart spoke to her so clearly. Did Mignon not feel something similar? Or was her unrest blocking it out?

The hospital shook with the force of another earthquake. Stronger than the previous tremors, it rocked the room and the lights. A lamp came dangerously close to vibrating off an end table. Several magazines slipped to the floor. As it calmed, a murmur rose among the others in the waiting room.

Mignon gripped her arms. "The bubble is flickering again," she noted. "More powerfully this time." She gazed out at the sky as it darkened. Energy leaping from the encasing continued to provide an occasional flash.

"It's beautiful," Della said. "If it really is connected with the spell, isn't it a good thing for it to flicker? Mr. Burger said you thought it meant the spell's power might be weakening."

"I don't know," Mignon sighed. "I'm unsure of everything connected with the spell. I just hope that Mr. Drake locates the box and the slab."

"I'm sure he'll be doing everything he can to find them," Della said. "He found me. And Mr. Anderson too, although that was quite by accident."

"What does Mr. Anderson think about all this?" Mignon asked.

"He isn't sure," Della said. "But I think he's starting to give in."

Mignon sighed. "I wish I could."

Della laid a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe when you hear that Larry will be alright," she said.

"Maybe," Mignon agreed without much hope.

She glanced at a holiday garland that had been draped in front of the nurses' station. "It's difficult to even feel festive under these circumstances," she remarked.

Della nodded. "I think that's when we need this season the most," she said.

"You are wise, Miss Street," Mignon said.

A bit embarrassed, Della shook her head. "I'm just someone who knows how comforting it can be," she said.

xxxx

The rest of the night passed in worried discomfort for everyone involved. Paul left the hospital, determining that instead of getting any sleep he would commence the search for Mr. Vann. Perry decided to try again to seek for possible information on Vivalene's involvement. Andy also left, shaken over the experience in Lieutenant Tragg's room and returning home to ponder in solitude.

That was the last departure of which Hamilton was aware. Exhausted and bearing badly frayed nerves after the long and agonizing night, he went back to the lounge where he and Paul had quarreled and sank into the couch. No one else was around, so he lay down and soon was sound asleep.

He could have been out of it for five minutes or five hours for all he knew. When a feminine hand grasped his shoulder and an urgent voice cried, "Mr. Burger!" he started awake in an instant.

"What is it?" he exclaimed.

Della was standing over him, her eyes filled with panic. "I'm sorry I had to wake you, but Lieutenant Tragg is gone!"

Hamilton leaped off the couch in disbelieving alarm and dread. "What do you mean 'gone'?" he retorted.

Realizing what he might be thinking, she hurried to clarify. "I mean literally _gone,_" she said. "He's not in his room and his clothes are missing! A patient swears he went past her room and outside, all by himself!"

Hamilton headed for the door, relieved on one count but worried on another. "He isn't well enough to be out!" he burst out as he hastened into the hall. "And he should know that. Where would he go?"

"No one knows!" Della said, running after him. "The police are checking his house, but if he's going there he isn't there yet. They're also checking all the possible ways to get there."

"This patient is sure no one was with him," Hamilton said. Vivalene would be brazen enough to abduct someone she wanted from the hospital.

"Yes," Della said. "Oh Mr. Burger, what are we going to do?"

"I'm going to put some of my investigators on it too," Hamilton said. "And then I'm going to go look myself. Do Perry and Paul know?"

"I called them," Della said. "I couldn't reach Paul, but Perry—I mean, Mr. Mason—said he would start looking right away."

Hamilton frowned. Had Paul run into some trouble while looking for Mr. Vann? On the other hand, maybe he had just fallen asleep somewhere. He was probably just as worn-out as Hamilton.

"I'll check Paul's home and his office," Hamilton decided.

"Mr. Burger, I want to help you look for him and Lieutenant Tragg," Della implored.

Hamilton only slowed his pace for a brief moment. Della was still stubborn too, in her own way.

"Alright," he relented, both because he did not have time to argue and he welcomed another pair of eyes. "But stay right with me!"

"Don't worry," Della smiled. "I can follow orders."

"Most of the time anyway," Hamilton muttered.

Louder he asked, "How's Larry?"

Della let out a sad sigh. "The doctors think he'll make it, but he hasn't woke up yet. Mignon has been with him ever since they let her go in."

"And she hasn't had any sleep herself," Hamilton knew. "Was I asleep a long time?"

"Four or five hours," Della said.

Hamilton glanced at the clock, trying to push aside the feelings of guilt for having managed to sleep when Mignon had had none. "What's Larry's room number? I want to stop and look in on them before we go."

"It's right down this hall," Della said. "The last door on the right."

Hamilton hurried over and eased the door open. Larry, bandaged and bruised, was lying unconscious in the bed. Mignon was in the sole chair, watching him.

"Hi," Hamilton said quietly from the doorway.

Mignon looked up. "Larry is supposed to recover," she greeted. "I'm going to stay with him. I assume you're going to look for the missing lieutenant?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "Mignon, you should really try to get some sleep yourself." It was pointless to say it, but he did anyway.

"I'll sleep," Mignon said, "after Larry wakes up and shows me he will be alright."

"That could be a while," Hamilton said gently.

"I will wait as long I must," Mignon said, leaving no room for argument.

Hamilton sighed. "Alright. I'll check with you when we get back."

Mignon nodded in reply. ". . . Be careful," she said after a pause.

"We will," Hamilton said, and quietly shut the door.

xxxx

Steve Drumm, hardboiled private eye, was typing furiously on his laptop, seeking any and all information on the man his latest client was attempting to find. This person did not want to be found. Steve could not even discover if he was outside of Los Angeles. Of course, on the other hand, that might not have anything to do with the guy at all.

He smacked the edge of the laptop with the palm of his hand. Something was outrageously wrong with all the channels of communication. Connecting to any website based outside of Los Angeles had been almost impossible for the last few days. And of course there was the thing with all travel outside the county limits being down. No one could even offer a valid reason why.

In agitation he got up from his desk. He had encountered fellow private investigator Vern St. Cloud outside the building where they had their separate offices. Vern, who all too often over-looked important clues, had shrugged everything off and said he was sure they knew what they were doing. It was absolutely aggravating.

But Steve could not blame that nonchalant attitude solely on Vern, not this time. It was the reaction Steve had been getting from almost everyone. By now he wanted to kick something and yell _Doesn't anyone care that something is wrong in this city?_ Why was everyone so lethargic? It did not make sense!

A _thump_ against his office door made him jump a mile. Well, so someone else had kicked something. He strode over and pulled the door open.

A shaking and sickly man fell into his arms. In shock he braced himself, staring beyond the windblown hair into the careworn and bewildered face. Why, he knew this man! "Lieutenant Tragg!" he exclaimed.

Tragg gripped his shoulder with a trembling hand. "Something's wrong in my head," he gasped. His eyes were glassy but filled with fright. "There's another voice in there, whispering to me. Help me, please!"


	12. Earthquake

**Chapter Twelve**

Steve paced his sparsely furnished office. Each time he glanced up at the man on his ratty couch he was filled with a new sense of disbelief. Why hadn't he called the little men in white jackets yet? Or an ambulance at least. Lieutenant Tragg had been ranting about a voice in his head. And he seemed so weakened that it was incredible he had wandered all the way there from the hospital. He clearly needed help.

Tragg sighed and shuddered, running a hand through his graying hair. "It sounds like Maureen," he whispered.

Steve snapped to attention. "What sounds like Maureen?" he demanded.

"The voice," Tragg said. "When it comes. And when it comes, I start to lose control of my will."

Alright, now Steve was fully disturbed. He reached for the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Tragg boomed.

The reaction was such a surprise that Steve dropped the receiver. "Someone who can help you better I can," he said. "I'm a private eye. I don't know how to cure voices in the head."

Tragg pounded his fist on the couch arm. "Blast it, I'm not crazy!" he snarled. "There's something else wrong." He slumped back into the couch. The sight of Drumm going for the phone had roused him from his stupor, but his outburst had taken most of what was left of his strength.

Steve perched on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. "What else?" he countered. "Look, Lieutenant—you're not well. You don't look like you can even get up again."

Tragg gave a weak shake of his head. "She was doing something to me," he said. "I don't understand what it was, but I . . . I felt my strength leaving me as she was doing it."

Steve shot him a piercing look. "Did she drug you?" he demanded.

Tragg gazed into the distance, considering the query. "No," he said slowly. "I don't think so. There was this . . . purple glow coming from an old metal box. A box that . . ." He stiffened.

"A box that what?" Steve got down from the desk, leaning forward.

". . . That looked like the one Mr. Burger has been talking about," Tragg said. "He said Mrs. Germaine thinks it's partially responsible for turning the city upsidedown."

If he had not had Steve's complete attention before, he certainly did now. Steve stared at him. "She thinks something's wrong in the city?" he exclaimed.

"Yeah." Tragg shrugged. "I haven't believed it. I thought Mr. Burger was losing his grasp on sanity. I'm still not sure. I just know Maureen had that old box . . . and that something came out of it and wrapped around me. . . ." He shuddered.

Steve was not sure what to think either. This sounded outlandish. But at last _someone_ was aware that there was a problem! He grabbed the phone again. "I want to talk to this Mrs. Germaine," he said. "Do you know how to reach her?"

"Eh. Through the district attorney, most likely," Tragg said. "I can't remember if she's in the phone book."

"We'll soon find out." Steve leafed through the phone book, soon locating the correct number. He dialed, but the phone only rang and kept ringing. In exasperation he slammed down the receiver. "Nevermind that. What's the district attorney's number?"

"Look it up," Tragg grumped. His head was pounding. He brought his hands up to his temples. The more he tried to ignore the voice, the more it hurt. And the more he heard the voice, the harder it was to ignore.

Steve frowned. "You wanted me to help you," he pointed out. "Just what did you think I could do?"

". . . I don't know," Tragg admitted. "I'm sorry, I . . ." He shut his eyes. "I can still hear that voice. It's making me quite disagreeable, I'm afraid."

The sudden pounding on the door made them both jump a mile. "Open up!" an unfamiliar voice yelled. "We know you have Tragg in there."

Steve tensed, reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster. "Who are you?" he shouted back. He caught a glance at Tragg. The other man was stiff but confused. He did not know who was out there.

"That doesn't matter," the voice said. "But if you don't open up, we're going to kick this door in. And if you don't hand him over, we're going to start shooting."

"If you open this door you'll get a bullet in your brain," Steve threatened, leveling the gun at the door. "Not unless you tell me who you are and what authority you have to break in here."

Tragg looked to him, his eyes filled with worry and concern. "Is there another way out?" he asked.

Steve shook his head. "Just through the window." He glanced at it. No one appeared to be outside, but they could be hiding, just waiting for an escape attempt.

He returned his attention to the door. He had received no reply. And now the door was being kicked in. He had to make a split-second decision. If these people had the proper authority, they would have identified themselves. He fired point-blank at the door and grabbed for Tragg. "We're getting out of here," he said. "Come on!"

Tragg struggled to his feet. The impending danger fueled what little was left of his strength. As Steve threw a chair at the window, shattering it, gunfire erupted in the room.

"Watch it!" one man yelled. "You're not supposed to kill him. They want him alive! Kill the P.I., but not him!"

"You won't have the satisfaction of getting either of us!" Tragg snapped over his shoulder. He climbed onto the windowsill and into the plants on the other side, being careful of the glass shards. Steve was right behind him, returning fire as he went. A cry from one of the men said loud and clear that the shot had found its mark.

"You owe me an explanation!" he said, keeping hold of Tragg's coat sleeve as they ran for his car. "What are those men talking about and why are they so interested in you?"

"I would like to hear that explanation myself!" Tragg retorted. "I can't think of any reason why, unless . . ." He faltered, nearly grinding to a halt. "Unless Mr. Burger is right," he finished. A small tremor shook the ground under his feet.

Bullets sailed overhead. "We'll talk about it on the way!" Steve urged. "Come on!"

Tragg came back to himself, hurrying after his new ally. Their pursuers were right behind them.

Steve fumbled with his keys as they ran. He led the way to an old and dark sedan, sticking the key in the lock and hauling open the door. "Get in!" he ordered. "I'm right behind you."

Tragg managed to climb into the car and over the driver's seat to the passenger side. Steve was in within the next minute. The engine revved and they were off.

Tragg breathed heavily. "I haven't . . . been so active . . . in a while," he gasped. "I've been too weak from . . . whatever that woman was doing." He pulled down the seatbelt, clicking it into place.

Steve glanced at him. "Where do you want to go?" he asked. "The D.A.'s office? The police station?"

"Mr. Burger might not be in yet," Tragg frowned. "I think he was up most of the night."

Gunfire whistled past the side of the car. Their enemies had loaded into their own vehicle and were now in hot pursuit.

"Oh great," Steve muttered. "It's been a while since I've been in a high-speed chase. I don't know if my car's up to this." He pushed on the accelerator.

At the same moment came a second tremor, far more powerful than the first. The car began to shake. Steve fought to keep control of the wheel. "We can't drive through this!" he exclaimed. "I have to pull over."

"Are _they_ pulling over?" Tragg returned.

Steve looked in the rear-view mirror. "No," he said. "No matter what we do now, we're sitting ducks."

xxxx

Elsewhere in town, Hamilton pulled over to the side of the road as the earthquake began. Next to him, Della tensed in worry.

"It's getting worse," she exclaimed.

Hamilton nodded, shutting off the engine. "This time we might have a lot of damage to deal with," he said. Between the earthquake and whatever aftershocks there could be, they could be in for a lot of trouble. "When it rains, it pours," he added in disgust.

He glanced up at the sky. Sure enough, what must be the bubble was flickering dangerously. But he froze as a jagged pinkish-purple bolt cut the air in the distance and struck an unknown surface.

Della saw it too. "It's making its own lightning?" she cried in disbelieving horror.

"It looks that way," Hamilton acknowledged. Now he was greatly troubled. "Try calling Perry again," he said. "I'll try Paul."

Her fingers trembling, Della got out her phone and began to dial. At her side, Hamilton was doing the same thing. For an agonizing moment the phone rang with no answer. But then at last, as the ground began to settle, there was a click.

"Hello?"

"Perry!" Della exclaimed. ". . . Oh, excuse me, Mr. Mason. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Perry returned. His voice sounded slightly strained. "What about you, Della? . . . Miss Street. Are you alright?"

"Yes," Della said, glancing at Hamilton for confirmation. "Where are you? Have you found Paul or Lieutenant Tragg yet?"

"No, I haven't," said Perry. "I'm with Mr. Anderson. I met him while looking for Tragg. He had thought of another place to look for the file on that field trip. We're in the school basement."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Della pressed. "You sound like you're hurt."

"It's nothing," Perry tried to assure her. "Where are you, by the way?"

"I'm with Mr. Burger," Della said. "We pulled over when the earthquake hit." She stared out the window. While there was not too much visible debris on this street, a streetlamp was now standing at a distinct angle, the grass around it was uprooted, and a house near it had sustained structural damage. In the distance, ambulance sirens were wailing.

"Well, be careful," warned Perry. "I wish I was there with you right now."

"We're both fine," Della said. "Don't worry about us."

Static filled the connection. Della tensed, her eyes widening in confused alarm. "Hello? Perry? Are you there?"

Then there was nothing. She pulled the phone back, staring at the screen. _No Signal_ flashed in silent reply.

Hamilton shut his phone with a snap. "I couldn't reach Paul," he reported. "Then the line just went dead."

Della nodded. "Perry and I were cut off." She looked to Hamilton, worry in her eyes. "I'm not sure he's alright. He sounded like he might be hurt."

Hamilton frowned. "Did he say where he is?"

"With Mr. Anderson in the school basement," Della said. "They met up while Perry was looking for Lieutenant Tragg."

Hamilton decided not to bring Della's attention to the fact that she had been saying _Perry._ "So they're in the Valley then," he mused. "Let's go there. We'll look for Tragg and Paul on the way."

Della was relieved, but she could not help feeling alarmed at the sight outside the window. "What about what's been done to Los Angeles?" she said quietly.

Hamilton did not answer. They both had the feeling that this street had been one of the luckier ones. From the increasing number of sirens, the damage and injuries were high.

Still not speaking, he started the engine and drove away. Della's wordlessness said that perhaps she did not really want the answer he could give.

xxxx

Andy pushed on the stubborn door one final time. At last it creaked, giving way under the pressure. Fresh air poured in from the stairwell.

"We can get out," he reported, looking back to Perry.

Perry clutched his arm as the blood seeped between his fingers. "Good," he said. "Let's go before an aftershock decides against it for us. I'm worried about Della." He pushed himself away from the wall, stepping around the old, fallen cardboard boxes in his path.

Andy watched him, the guilt flickering in his eyes. "We shouldn't have come in here," he berated. "It's my fault you're hurt. And we didn't find the file anyway."

"It was my choice to come here with you," Perry said. "It was _not_ your fault." He glanced down at the fallen folders. One sheet of paper now on the floor had caught his attention. "And what's this?" He bent to pick it up.

Andy's jaw dropped. "Not the missing file?"

Perry came over to him, half-scanning through it. "That, I couldn't say," he admitted. "What do you think?"

Andy took it, stepping farther into the light from upstairs. "I think it is," he gasped. "Or part of it, anyway." He glowered at the paper. "Whoever typed this didn't finish filling it in. All it says is that there was a field trip on the designated date and gives the name of the host as D. Greenbrier."

"Greenbrier," Perry mused.

Andy regarded him in surprise. "Does that ring a bell?"

Perry shook his head. "I have this feeling it should mean something, but it isn't coming to me." As the floor trembled he tensed. "Quick, let's get out of here."

Andy needed no convincing. He hastened up the steps, with Perry right on his heels.

The scene on the main floor left them both stunned. Several of the ceiling light fixtures had been jarred loose and were hanging at odd angles. They would have been sparking dangerously if Andy had not turned off the electricity at the main breaker in the basement. Plaster and other debris was spread across the floor and in the many open doorways.

"Is anyone else here?" Perry wondered.

"No," Andy said. "There wasn't school today. I unlocked the building myself and locked it after you came in."

"Then let's just leave," Perry said.

Andy surveyed the damage and nodded. "I'm worried about Miss Street too," he confessed. "And your detective and Lieutenant Tragg. Where are all these people going?"

"They may not be in the same place at all," Perry said.

They were walking up the corridor to the door when the aftershock hit in full force. Tumbling off-balance from the sudden shock, they crashed to the floor. Perry grimaced at the further injury dealt to his right arm. The pain was stabbing, the blood coming much faster.

Andy looked up when the building stopped shaking. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Perry looked at his arm. "I'll live," he said.

Andy came to him in concern. "I should treat that before we leave," he exclaimed.

"No." Perry got to his feet, holding his arm up to curb the flow of blood. "I'll be fine until we get to the car. I have a first-aid kit in the trunk."

"And you might pick up a cellphone signal outside," Andy deduced.

Perry nodded. "That too," he admitted.

Andy sighed. "Alright, let's get out there before something else goes wrong."

The scene outside was not encouraging. A fire hydrant had broken, sending a geyser of water high into the flashing sky. Tree branches and pieces of the school's roof were scattered over the path, the street, and on top of cars. And when Perry pulled out his phone, _No Signal_ continued to insistently mock him. He shoved it back in his pocket in disgust.

"Well, this is a disaster zone," Andy said, throwing up his hands.

Perry frowned. "I wonder where the epicenter is," he mused.

Andy blinked. "Where do you think it might be?" he wondered.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Perry said. "But it just occurred to me—if Paul and Mr. Burger have been right, and if all of this activity is not caused by nature but instead by magic, then perhaps if we find the epicenter we may find Mr. Vann and his elusive box."

Andy stared. "You could have a point," he admitted. "I'll treat your arm and then we'll add the epicenter to our list of things to find."

Perry nodded. "Of course, on the other hand the shaking could be originating from all around us, at the edges of this bizarre bubble we're in," he continued. "But the first option is worth a try, at least."

"And we'll keep trying the radio for updates," Andy added. They reached Perry's car and he unlocked the trunk. Andy lifted out the first-aid kit.

"If the radio works at all," Perry said. "It may not have a signal either."

That, they soon discovered, was quite true. Andy sighed in discouragement as he finished applying the bandage moments later. "Well, now what?" he said. He closed the first-aid kit with a bang.

Perry gave him a nod of thanks. "Now I believe we should check on the Petersons," he said. "They live around here and they have quite a stake in what happens."

Andy considered that briefly before nodding in consent. "Young Howie is the godson of both Mignon Germaine and Hamilton Burger," he remembered.

"And it was the trunk found in his family's home that housed the box," Perry said. "If we can locate them, perhaps they should all come with us."

Andy blinked in surprise. "Maybe so," he said. "If they'll listen."

"Howie will listen," Perry said. "I'm almost sure of that. It's his parents I wonder about."

xxxx

Tragg brought a shaking hand to his head, covering the right side of his face as his temples pounded. They were still on the road, even after the first aftershock. And their pursuers still caught a glimpse of them every few blocks or so. Those hitmen were keeping track as best as they could while dodging the debris on the streets.

He was growing weak again. He had not been strong enough to leave the hospital; of course he realized that. He had not left of his own free will. The voice in his head had been fierce at that point, able to control his actions by its very words. It had only been outside and several blocks away that he had managed to wrestle back control of his body. He had no idea why he had gone to Steve Drumm for help. Most likely, he had not known where he was going at all.

"_You can't fight forever, Arthur,"_ the voice came again. _"Your moment of defiance has passed. Now, cease this madness and come to me! You know where I am. You can feel my pull on your mind. Come, Arthur. Come."_

He did not want to go. She was not Maureen. She was blackening Maureen's name by this charade.

But . . . he did want to go, for that reason. He wanted to confront her.

And what then? Would he lose his last connection to his wife? Would she be gone too?

Why did he care? He should put all of this behind him. He would be better off without that fraud in his life. But . . . but still . . .

"_You can't let me go, Arthur. You know that. You can never let me go again, no matter what I've done."_

A horrible humming exploded in his ears. It drowned out everything—the screech of the tires, a flying bullet, Drumm's frustrated exclamation. . . . Everything except that voice. He could still hear that voice above it all.

An anguished scream tore from his lips. All sense of reasoning or logic was lost. His eyes wild, he lunged for the steering wheel. "Give me that!" he roared.

It was all the shocked Steve could do to hold onto it. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Stop it! Get back in your seat!"

But Tragg would not give up. He snatched the wheel, his knuckles whitening as he also gripped it for dear life. When Steve tried to turn to the right, Tragg wrenched it to the left. The fight for control swerved the car down the street.

"We're going to hit that tree branch in the road!" Steve screamed. "What's the matter with you?" He tried to jerk the car away, but he was not fast enough. It hit the branch dead-on and turned onto its side.

xxxx

Paul groaned, reaching a fumbling hand up to the cut over his right eye. Blood was trickling down his face, half-obscuring his vision as he fought to force his eyes open.

_What happened?_

He was lying on the sidewalk, partially under an awning. Next to him on the ground was the piece of tree that had clocked him when it fell. His phone was also out, flashing something on the screen over and over. He squinted, unable to see it.

The sound of the crash in the road was more than enough to jar him back to consciousness. A car had collided with a tree and tipped onto its side. Before he could even rise, a figure emerged from the side facing up. It staggered briefly but then righted itself, tearing down the street. Something about it was familiar.

"Hey!" Paul cried, sitting up on the sidewalk. "You! Stop!" Clutching his head, he stumbled to his feet and ran into the road. The other man was already scrambling around a corner. There was no mistaking who it was.

"I can't believe it," Paul said to himself. It was Lieutenant Arthur Tragg.

The weak voice calling for help aborted any plans Paul had of giving chase. He spun around, staring at the car in alarm. He had had no idea that someone was still inside! He jogged over before the adrenaline rush could fade. "Who's here?" he called.

"Steve Drumm," was the rasping reply. "My seatbelt's stuck and I can't get out. Please help me."

Paul's mouth fell open. "Steve?" he cried. He went to the roof of the car and reached over, pulling open the passenger door. Steve turned to look at him, his eyes bleary and his forehead bleeding. He had probably struck his head against the driver's side window when the car had tipped over.

Paul hurried to get out his pocketknife and slice the seatbelt. The thing was holding his friend prisoner now, but before that it had very likely saved his life. "Do you know me, Steve?" he asked as he leaned in.

"You're Paul Drake," Steve acknowledged. "I've seen your picture in the paper."

Paul sighed to himself. "Okay, you're free," he said, cutting through the second strap. "Can you get out?" He closed the knife and stuffed it back in his pocket.

Steve fumbled, reaching up a hand to the backrest and trying to pull himself over to the open passenger door. Paul took hold of his wrist to help. His own wound was starting to make him dizzy. He clenched his teeth as he fought to keep it at bay. "Come on," he muttered. "Just a little bit longer."

Steve was losing his balance. Panicked, he shot his other hand up, clutching at Paul. It was only a miracle that Paul did not tumble into the car too. Instead he pulled with all of his strength. At last Steve gained enough momentum to push himself out the rest of the way.

The two men collapsed backwards on the grassy island in the middle of the street. "Oh brother," Paul gasped. He turned to look at Steve as the dizziness crashed around him in full force. "Would you mind telling me what happened? Why was Lieutenant Tragg in the car with you? No, make that why did he just abandon you and skip out?"

"I don't know. The man's lost his mind!" Steve slumped into the grass, closing his eyes against the pounding pain in his head. "He found me and was babbling about a voice in his head. Then these men showed up wanting to kill me and take him with them. We ran from them. We were in the car when he suddenly got violent. He grabbed the wheel and got us into that wreck. Then he just climbed out and ran. I was too dazed at first to really process it."

A cold chill ran up Paul's spine. "He really must have lost his mind," he exclaimed. Was it Vivalene's work? Paul was so bewildered he did not even know any more.

"Communication seems to be down around the city," Steve mumbled. "The radio wouldn't work. My phone was dead too."

Paul groaned. "Then mine was probably saying 'No Signal,'" he realized. "I won't be able to check in with anyone!"

"What were you doing here anyway?" Steve wondered.

"I was trying to find a guy named Vann," Paul said. "Only he doesn't call himself that here and I don't know what name he's using. All I really know is that his home's a museum."

"I know a couple of homes like that," Steve said. "If you need to check with someone we could find a landline phone and see if it works. And I could double-check the addresses."

"Are you sure?" Paul frowned. "I think I should get you to the hospital. You could have a concussion or whiplash. Or heck, both."

Steve opened his eyes, looking over at his rescuer. "You look like you've seen better days yourself, Mr. Drake."

Paul sighed. "I guess you're right. Okay, here's a new plan. Let's just go to the hospital. Some friends of ours have been there. Maybe some of them still are and we can figure out where to go from there."

"Alright," Steve consented. ". . . But . . . what do you mean 'friends of ours'?"

Paul pushed himself into a sitting position. "It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you about it on the way to my car."

Steve sat up too, raising an eyebrow. "_You're_ going to drive?" he said, doubtful.

"There might not be a cab around for blocks," Paul said. "My car's just over there." He pointed across the street.

Steve followed his gaze. "I hope that passenger of yours won't be hard to evict," he said.

"Huh?" Paul looked more closely. A heavy tree branch had penetrated the canvas roof and was sitting in the driver's seat. "Oh no!"

Steve pulled himself to his feet. "Well," he said, "we might as well get started."

Paul gave an occupied nod. "That 'passenger' has definitely got to go," he vowed.

xxxx

Mignon tightly clasped and unclasped her hands. She was still at the hospital, still watching over Larry. The earthquakes and aftershocks were all but turning her sanity upsidedown. Some of the patients were growing distressed as well. It was a stronger quake than the little tremors that often beset the city. This one was powerful enough to do damage. And outside, the mysterious purplish-pink lightning flashed from the top of the bubble.

"This is not natural," she said quietly. "It's as I feared."

Larry stirred, forcing his eyes open. "Mother?" he mumbled. "What's going on?"

Mignon jerked to attention. "Larry!" She stood, leaning over the bed. "Thank God. The doctors felt you would be alright, but I couldn't be at peace until you woke up."

Larry looked agitated. "Mother, where's Mr. Burger?"

Mignon's eyes flickered with surprise. "I don't know," she said. "He was here most of the night, but he left when Lieutenant Tragg went missing."

Larry sank back into the pillows. "The men who beat me up," he rasped. "They said they were doing it because you were helping him. And they said Mr. Burger would get worse than that, but that they wouldn't be the ones doing it. I don't know what they meant."

The words stabbed Mignon with sorrow. "I'm afraid I know," she said. "They haven't been hurting him physically; no one has. But his heart has taken many harsh blows." She straightened, turning away. "I've inflicted some of them."

Larry stared at her. "That's ridiculous!" he protested. "You know how he hurt you. You haven't done anything wrong by rejecting him."

Mignon glanced out the window. "The more this day goes on, the more I'm certain that he has been right," she said. "And that means that my memories are all false." She turned back to Larry. "It means he didn't hurt me."

Larry gaped. "Mother, you can't really believe that," he said. "I remember too. Everyone does, except Mr. Burger and that private detective. And they must be either insane or lying."

"No," Mignon said. "There's too much that makes sense with their words." She sighed. "I believed Mr. Burger from the first day he came to me with this story. And yet I could not let go of what I thought I remembered."

". . . And you can now?" Larry asked.

"It will still take a great deal of courage and faith," Mignon said. "But I think I know now why I never received an answer to my prayers." She nodded quietly to herself. "I already knew the answer. I knew what I needed to do."

Quickly changing the subject she said, "But Larry, what about those men? Did you know them?"

Larry averted his gaze. "One of them," he said. He looked back up again. "But I never thought he'd do something like that!"

Mignon stiffened. "What did you think he'd do?" she asked. "How do you know him?"

Larry shook his head helplessly. "He approached me a few weeks ago and asked if I really wanted to keep working for Mr. Burger," he said. "I thought he was soliciting a bribe or a position in some law firm. He told me Mr. Burger wasn't fit to be the district attorney and that . . ." He stared at the wall. "That I was the perfect choice to take over."

Mignon stared in alarm. "Larry, you haven't done anything illegal!" she gasped.

He looked up with a jerk. "No, Mother, I promise," he said. "I told the guy 'Nothing doing.' I didn't hear from him again until a few days ago, after Mr. Burger started spreading these crazy stories around. He said that I shouldn't need any more proof that Mr. Burger had worn out his welcome and that Mr. Burger was off his rocker." He sighed. "Well, I couldn't disagree with that. But I still said I wouldn't get mixed up with the guy's plans, whatever they were. If Mr. Burger was going to be kicked out of office, I didn't want any part of it. And then I didn't see the guy until last night, when he showed up to have me pummeled. He didn't beat me up; he just stood and watched. He left before you came down."

"Do you know his name?" Mignon demanded.

Larry nodded. "It's Greenbrier."


	13. Greenbrier

**Chapter Thirteen**

When Perry got out of the car at the Petersons' home, to his surprise Howie burst through the door and ran onto the porch. "Mr. Mason!" he called, his eyes wide and worried. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Perry glanced at his bandaged arm and the torn and bloodied coat sleeve. "Why, yes," he said. "But Howie, how do you know who I am? We haven't met."

Howie shifted. "I know, and that's the weird part," he said. "It feels like we have." He shrugged. "Mom says I've got too much imagination and that I'm making up the whole thing after seeing you in the newspapers and on TV. But I don't know if it's true or not."

Perry's frown deepened. "What about this gentleman here?" he queried, indicating Andy as he stepped out from the driver's seat. "Do you feel you've met him too?"

Howie nodded vigorously. "Oh, I've met him, Mr. Mason," he said. "He's the principal. Hello, Mr. Anderson."

Andy nodded in return. "Hello, Howie."

Howie cocked his head to the side. "It's weird, though," he continued.

Andy blinked. "How do you mean?"

Howie shivered. "I've always had a creepy feeling when I see you, Sir," he said. "Like . . ." He frowned. "Like I know something really awful or really sad about you." He looked at the porch. "I don't know why."

Andy exchanged a look with Perry. He had been shot right in the Petersons' home, according to Hamilton and Paul. Could that be what Howie was thinking of?

Embarrassed now, Howie kicked at the porch. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I don't know why I said that. Mom would be mad if she knew."

Andy hastened forward. "No," he exclaimed. "Don't apologize, Howie. I want to know these things. Mr. Mason does too."

Perry sighed. On the way there, Andy had told him that Howie often escaped into his shell. According to Andy, Howie had been far more open and friendly when Hamilton had been allowed to see him as his godfather. Since the supposed fight with Mignon and his parents' refusal to let Hamilton continue in that role, Howie had withdrawn a great deal. Perry was surprised that the boy had been as talkative now as he had been.

A surge of anger went through his veins. If everything was true, it was not only adults who were suffering from Vivalene's and Judge Heyes' selfishness.

He came closer. "Howie, are your parents home?" he asked.

Howie shook his head. "They're probably trying to get home now," he said. Fear flashed in his eyes. He did not want to say it and make it seem more real, but he was terrified that they had been hurt in the earthquake.

Andy frowned. "Why did they go away and leave you here by yourself?" he said in disbelief.

"They got a sitter, but she wasn't any good." Howie frowned. "She left with her boyfriend and said she'd be back in a while. That was a long time ago!"

"Well, we certainly can't leave you all alone," said Perry. "There may be more aftershocks." He straightened, debating with himself before at last relenting to ask what was on his mind. "Howie, do you know if there was a metal box in your house?"

Howie bit his lip. "I don't know," he said. "I don't think so."

"Do you know what Mr. Burger has been saying about that box?" Andy chimed in.

"Uh uh." Howie's face fell. "Mom and Dad won't let me talk to Mr. Burger. But I called him last night to tell him something was wrong at Mignon's house! He called back to tell me what happened." He looked up again. "He tried to call this morning and let me know more, but Mom answered the phone. She wouldn't let me have it." He scowled then sighed. "She did tell me what he said, though. Larry's going to be okay."

"That's right," Perry said.

"I thought maybe Mignon would have told you something of what Mr. Burger has been saying," Andy said.

Howie hesitated. "Well, she did tell me that Mr. Burger and Mr. Drake think something really bad is going on," he said at last. "They're saying we aren't remembering things the way they really are. She thought I should know about it. Mom and Dad couldn't believe she would listen to anything he said."

"And what do you think, Howie?" Perry returned.

Howie considered his answer. "I think Mr. Burger wouldn't say it if he didn't believe it," he said. "He doesn't believe in weird stuff. And . . ." He shifted his weight again. "It'd make sense with me thinking I know you, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Perry consented, slowly. "It would." He glanced to Andy. "Howie, will you excuse us for a moment?"

Howie nodded. "Sure."

The two men stepped away from the porch. "Mr. Mason, what do you plan to do?" Andy frowned. "Of course we'll have to take him with us, but his parents will be furious if we involve him with Mr. Burger's theories."

"Right now, I'm not sure we have a choice," Perry said. "I wouldn't think of taking Howie if there was another option. When we leave, everything else we do—even looking for the missing people—depends at least partially on these theories. And the sky is getting darker. I think that whatever is happening is only going to continue to get worse."

Andy sighed. "You might be right, but I still don't feel good about this." He pondered the problem. "Maybe we should take him to the hospital and leave him with Mrs. Germaine, if she's still there."

"I hate to do that," Perry said. "She needs rest so badly. But he would surely be safer there than out with us."

"Then let's do it," Andy encouraged. "I'll write a note and leave it in case Mr. and Mrs. Peterson come back." He reached for a small notepad in his pocket.

Perry mulled over the idea for only a moment more. "Alright," he agreed.

He walked back to the porch. "Howie, we're going to try to find Mignon," he said. "If we can, do you want to stay with her for now?"

Howie nodded. "I want to see how Larry's doing, too," he said.

Andy came over with the quickly scribbled note. "Where can I put this where your parents will see it?" he queried.

"Oh." Howie pointed inside. "Just anywhere, I guess. Maybe on the table there."

Andy stepped inside the entryway and slipped the note on the end table under a paperweight. He started to pull the door shut after him when he came back out. "Do you have a key to the house, Howie?" he questioned.

Howie shook his head. "Mignon has one," he said.

"Alright then." Andy resumed closing the door.

Suddenly Howie ran over and grabbed his sleeve. "Just a minute!" he exclaimed. "I wanna get something first. Is that okay?"

Surprised, Andy stepped back. "Of course," he said.

Howie ran inside and up the stairs. A few minutes later he was back, lugging a heavy pack. "Okay," he said.

Andy pulled the door shut and locked it. Perry regarded Howie curiously as they went down the stairs. "What have you got in there, Howie?" he wondered.

"Some stuff," Howie said. "My dumptruck and some other things." He looked up at Perry, his eyes woebegone. "Mr. Mason, do you think my parents are safe?"

Perry hesitated. He disliked being put on the spot in this way. What could he say? He had no idea of the answer. And while he did not want to lie to Howie, he also did not want to frighten the boy more than he already was.

"I don't know," he admitted. "They're very likely just fine and worried about you."

"But they could be hurt," Howie said, his voice quiet.

". . . Yes," Perry said. "They could be."

"Let's not think about that," Andy interjected. He led the way to the car.

Howie pulled open the door to the backseat and climbed in. He remained silent until Perry and Andy had entered as well and Andy had started the engine. Then he leaned forward, gripping the edges of both front seats. "Is Mr. Burger okay?" he asked plaintively. "Do you know?"

Perry frowned again. "I don't know where he is right now," he said. "I hope he's alright." He said the last part half to Howie and half to himself.

xxxx

Judge Heyes glowered to himself as he sat in his chambers, gripping the edge of his desk for dear life as another aftershock began. He dove under the piece of furniture, muttering to himself.

Vivalene thought that she was the one pulling all the strings. Well, he was tired of allowing her to think that. And he was tired of her hocus-pocus. This was not the way he had wanted to run this campaign.

His methods ran more along the line of dirty politics. He had tried that a bit by using Mr. Vann to attempt to bring Larry Germaine onto their side. It had failed, miserably. But there was no reason why he could not try some more.

He could take a page from Vivalene's book and try a smear approach. He could see that Hamilton Burger was branded an incompetent. Or worse, a man gone mad. He could have him removed from office. That would devastate him; he liked what he did. The people of Los Angeles evidently did as well, or they would not keep re-electing him.

Heyes frowned deeper. It would take a long time to turn the people against Hamilton Burger. And time was something he did not have. He always came back to that reasoning for not trying that method. And despite feeling that she had the time, Vivalene had not been interested in it; she had preferred to hit his personal rather than his professional life.

"Judge Heyes?"

He looked up with a start. The aftershock had ended. Mr. Vann was standing in the doorway, all smooth and smug. But his visage flickered with faux concern.

Heyes climbed out from under the desk. "What is it?" he snapped.

Mr. Vann brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I thought you'd like to know," he said. "Perry Mason and the former Lieutenant Anderson picked up Howie Peterson."

Heyes' eyes immediately glimmered. "I see," he mused. "This is interesting."

Vann smiled. "We are on the same wavelength then."

Heyes nodded. "See that they're followed," he ordered. "At the right time, the boy will come into our . . . watchful care. Hamilton Burger is very protective of him. We can easily use him to get what we want."

Vann looked more entertained than anything else. "You're not going to sit and wait, as Vivalene has told you?"

"Of course not," Heyes retorted. "I'm sick of her black magic. Now look what it's doing! It's tearing Los Angeles apart!"

Vann chuckled. "Well. Things are bound to become even more interesting around here," he said.

"Nevermind that," Heyes said. "Just go to the house and check on a couple of people I ordered picked up."

An eyebrow rose. "Oh? Which people are those?"

Heyes fixed him with a cold gaze. "Mr. and Mrs. Peterson."

xxxx

Tragg pressed himself against the side of a building in a darkened alley. His head was pounding, his heart racing. Shaking, he held a hand against his right temple.

"What have I done?" he whispered, somewhere amid the swirling mists of confusion. "I left a man to die. How could I have done that? I swore to protect . . ."

The squeezing pain gripped him again. His face twisted in his agony. He reached out, clutching at the bricks of the building.

"_All that matters is what you hear from me, Arthur. Keep coming. I need you with me. You can't ignore me! You don't have the heart."_

Tragg pressed himself harder into the bricks. If only they would just swallow him up and free him from this! "No, no. . . ." He shook his head. "I can't go to you. I have to find Steve Drumm."

It felt like a stake being pounded into his heart. He fell back, his mouth open in a silent cry. Whenever the pain worsened and that humming noise started, he began to lose control of himself. From there it was not long and he was at the mercy of the fake Maureen, viewing what he was doing through a strange fog but being unable to do a thing to stop it.

After a moment he pushed away from the building. Now he was no longer bent over in anguish; he walked firm and resolute. But he was also no longer operating under his own power.

xxxx

Hamilton gave an exhausted sigh as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. The building was overly crowded now, with earthquake injuries and the loved ones of those who had been hurt. The only parking spot he could find was far from the doors.

Unsuccessful in locating any of the missing, and with cellphone communication down, they had at last come across a working landline telephone and called the hospital. Mignon had said that Larry was awake. And she had told of what he had said about the mysterious man named Greenbrier. She had also mentioned that the others were starting to convene at the hospital. Paul had come in not long ago with Steve Drumm. Both were hurt. And now Perry and Andy had arrived with Howie Peterson. Perry was hurt as well.

As Hamilton parked and shut off the engine, Della was scrambling for the door. "Do you think they're hurt bad?" she fretted as she fumbled with the handle and then finally forced the door open.

"I don't know," Hamilton said. Since it was pointless to go around and open the door for Della, he just got out, shut his door, and met her on the pavement. "Mignon said she didn't think it was serious, for any of them."

"Well, of course they wouldn't let her think it was!" Della exclaimed.

Hamilton fixed her with a Look. "How do you know that?" he countered.

Della paused and blinked. "I suppose old memories are slowly coming back to me," she said.

"And not any time too soon, I can tell you that," Hamilton said.

They walked briskly over the asphalt and to the doors. The waiting room beyond was overcrowded with worried, nervous people. Some of them bore bloodstains on their clothes and skin—blood that was generally not their own. The nurses and other staff looked overwhelmed.

As they stepped inside Della looked around in sickened worry. "Oh, these poor people," she declared. "Where do we go from here?"

"Let's just try Larry's room," Hamilton suggested. "Maybe they're gathering in there."

"If they're well enough," Della said quietly.

They managed to maneuver around the frightened crowds and down the halls until they reached Larry's room. Hamilton knocked, waiting to hear an answering "Come in" from Mignon before pushing open the door.

A small blur ran to him in the next moment. "Mr. Burger!" Howie cried, hugging him around the waist. "It's been so long!"

Surprised, Hamilton returned the hug. "I know," he said. For him it had technically been only a few days, although it felt an eternity. And for Howie, whose memories had been altered, who knew how long it had seemed.

"I don't want Mom and Dad to make you stay away any more," Howie said. "It's not fair."

Hamilton was about to reply when Mignon spoke up. "Perhaps, if we can solve this mystery, they will change their minds."

Howie gave a determined nod. "We're going to solve it, aren't we, Mr. Burger? We're going to find that box thing?"

"We're going to try," Hamilton said. He was still a bit surprised, by Howie as well as Mignon. Apparently Howie knew and believed at least some of what was happening.

Della, meanwhile, had immediately spotted Perry and run over to him. "Perry!" she called. "Are you alright?"

Perry, standing near the window, looked up with a smile. "I'm just fine," he said. "It's not serious. The doctor confirmed it." He gave Della a searching look. "And you're not hurt, I hope."

Della shook her head. "Mr. Burger and I didn't have any trouble," she said. Her mind eased about Perry, she focused on her other worry. "What about Paul? And that Mr. Drumm?" She looked around the room.

"They're lucky they weren't hurt worse than they were," Perry said. "Mr. Drumm is quite shaken up. His car tipped over. And Paul was knocked unconscious by a falling tree branch during the earthquake. The doctors wanted to run a few more tests, but it doesn't look bad for either of them."

"Thank goodness." Della turned to Mignon and Larry. Larry's glance was without recognition. Mignon nodded in response to Della's silent query.

"Larry is doing well," she said. "The doctors want him to stay here another night, at least, but then he should be able to rest at home."

"I'll be glad when this day is over," Larry complained.

"You're not the only one," Hamilton said as he came over. "I'm glad to see you looking better than you did last night, Larry."

Larry looked a bit awkward and even sheepish. "Thank you, Mr. Burger," he half-mumbled.

"So," Perry said, "I've heard that we may finally be getting somewhere." He glanced at everyone in the room, his gaze resting particularly on Hamilton and Della. "Mr. Anderson and I found an incomplete file in the school basement, listing a man named D. Greenbrier."

Hamilton started. "The same person who was bothering Larry?"

Perry nodded. "It looks that way. And to make things even more interesting, Steve Drumm has the address of a Mr. Greenbrier who uses his house as a museum."

Della was amazed. "Then this is our best lead yet!" she exclaimed. "Are we going to go out there?"

"Of course," Perry said. "The question is, who all is going?"

"Well," Hamilton said, "I can't think that any of us would want to stay behind." He looked from Della to Andy and then to Mignon, questions in his eyes. He wanted her to come. And she, perhaps, _needed_ to come more than any of them, with her knowledge of magic.

Mignon nodded, albeit with some reluctance. "I'll come," she said. "But Howie should stay here with Larry." Her eyes carried a silent message—they still knew nothing of his parents' whereabouts.

Howie exclaimed in protest. "But Mr. Mason said the box was stolen from our house! I should come so I can claim it!"

Perry tried and failed to hide a smile. "If it is the box that was in your house, Howie, I'm afraid we'll know it right away. And I don't know that you'll be able to take it back. If it does all that Mr. Burger and Mr. Drake have claimed, it's very dangerous."

Howie pouted. "I don't want to stay here," he protested.

"I don't either, but I don't have much choice," Larry said. "It won't be so bad, Howie. We can keep each other company."

"Is Paul coming?" Della asked.

The door opened at that minute. "He sure is," Paul declared. "And so's Steve."

Della smiled in relief. Both men bore bandages over their injuries, but seemed otherwise fine.

Perry looked to them. "No concussions?"

"Nope. And we were just lucky." Paul sighed. "Tragg's still missing. We looked high and low for him while we were coming to the hospital."

Mignon looked to Hamilton. "Lieutenant Tragg lost control of himself," she said. "He ran Mr. Drumm's car into a tree branch and then fled, leaving Mr. Drumm stranded inside the car."

"What?" Hamilton stared at her. "Lieutenant Tragg would never do something like that!"

Steve stepped forward. "He told me he was hearing a voice in his head and that it was trying to take over his body," he frowned. "I don't know what's wrong with him. He said the voice sounded like someone named Maureen."

Hamilton gaped at him, at a loss for words. ". . . So now what?" he burst out at last. He looked to Mignon. "Are you trying to say we're dealing with possession?"

"I don't know," Mignon said. "Clearly it's some form of mind-control. But if Lieutenant Tragg's wife was a decent person, then what has happened now must be the result of the missing impostor rather than the real Maureen. The fraud must be using what she did to him to manipulate his actions from afar." She looked from Hamilton to the others in the room. "And as long as Lieutenant Tragg is being influenced to this extent, I'm afraid he must be considered an enemy. He may be capable of anything."

Hamilton threw his hands in the air. He thought he had been taking this quite well, putting up with all manner of preposterous notions and concepts throughout this ordeal. But now he was fed up. "This is ridiculous!" he cried. "People are starting to remember. But it's not bad enough that now we have to deal with earthquakes and lightning storms because of it. We have to consider that one of our own isn't on our side?"

"Not by his own free will," Mignon asserted. "I'm sorry."

"I am too."

Hamilton looked up in surprise. It was Paul who had spoken. Now he had come to stand near Hamilton, genuinely regretful.

"I saw him," Paul confessed. "I was still dazed, but I watched him climb out of the car and run away. I was going to chase after him until I heard Steve calling for help."

Hamilton averted his gaze. "You know, out of everything that's happened, I thought the hardest thing for me to deal with was the effects of Vivalene's lies about me," he said, bitterness slipping into his voice. "But realizing that a friend might be an honest-to-goodness enemy . . . that's much worse."

Paul nodded. "There has to be a way to get through to him," he said. "Tragg's nothing if not stubborn. I can't believe he'd just let Vivalene or anyone else control him."

Hamilton could not fully conceal his surprise that Paul was trying to be comforting. "He wouldn't, if he could help it at all." He headed for the door. "Let's not waste any more time. Let's get going. And we'll look for Tragg on the way."

The others concurred. Most filed to the door. Hamilton and Mignon lingered a moment.

Howie looked up at Hamilton. "I'm scared," he said. His soft voice trembled. "What if something happens to you and Mignon?"

Hamilton glanced Mignon's way before lowering himself to Howie's eye level. "Well . . . I can't lie to you, Howie," he said. "Something might. But we have to do this. It's very important. It means getting all of our lives—and the lives of everyone in Los Angeles County—back to normal."

Howie glowered. "Then you've gotta come back," he said.

Hamilton gave a quiet sigh. "I told you once that I couldn't promise that," he said. "It wouldn't be fair to you. But I also said I'd promise we'd do everything we could to make it back. I'm promising that again now."

Howie bit his lip. At last he nodded his consent. "Okay," he mumbled.

Hamilton stood, laying his hand on Howie's shoulder. Mignon looked to him. "You go ahead," she said. "I'll be along in a minute."

"Alright," Hamilton agreed. He bade them and Larry goodbye before slipping out the door.

Mignon turned her attention to the dejected boy. "Be good," she instructed him. "Mind what Larry tells you."

Howie looked down. "Okay," he mumbled, grudgingly.

"Mother, I don't think you should be going along with this," Larry objected. "You could get hurt! Mr. Burger's already acknowledged that!"

Mignon straightened with a sigh. "Yes," she agreed, "he has. But this affects all of us, Larry. It may all be coming to an end tonight. I need to be with them, to do whatever I can to help."

Larry sighed too. "I know it won't do any good to try to convince you otherwise," he said. "I just wish I wasn't stuck in this bed. I'd come too!"

"Now, Larry. Your role is just as important. Keep watch over Howie." Mignon hid a smile. "I know he would come as well, if we let him."

"Yeah, I would!" Howie said.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Mignon tried to reassure them. She turned to head for the door.

At the last moment Howie chased after her. "You know Mr. Burger is telling the truth, don't you?" he exclaimed.

Mignon blinked in surprise at the frank, innocent question. ". . . Yes," she said at last.

Howie stared up at her. "Then aren't you going to be friends with him again?"

Mignon stared back. _Out of the mouths of babes._ ". . . Deep down, I don't think we ever stopped being friends," she said. "That's why the pain over what he did—what I _thought_ he did—has never gone away."

"Then tell him," Howie pleaded. "Tell him it's okay and you still love him and want to be friends!"

Mignon bent down, giving Howie a quick hug. "I will," she promised.

Straightening, she opened the door and cast one last look at Larry and Howie. "Take care, both of you," she said.

Outside, the ominous lightning lit up the darkened sky.

xxxx

Maureen was standing on the porch of the grand house, leaning with crossed arms against a white pillar, as Tragg staggered through the gate and started up the driveway. She gave him a cruel smirk.

"You see?" she purred. "I knew you'd come." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "But oh dear, you're fighting me all the same."

Tragg straightened, glowering in defiance. "You've made a complete mockery out of my wife," he said, his voice dark. "She would never stand for this. Standing there looking like her is absolutely repulsive." His heart throbbed and he gasped, clutching it as he doubled over.

Maureen pushed away from the pillar. "Be repulsed all you like," she said. "It won't help you. Flo, the box!" She clapped her hands at the command.

Tragg looked up, his eyes blearily taking in the sight of another blonde woman stepping onto the porch. In her hands she held the same box that Maureen had attacked him with earlier. It was glowing with dark purple energy as she raised the lid.

Tragg took a step back. "No," he protested, holding up a hand in a vain attempt to shield himself.

It did no good. The misty tendrils curled around his weakened body, drawing more strength from his very heart and soul. The very power to resist was being drained from him even as he fought against it. When enough opposition was gone he stood upright, his eyes glassy and blank.

Maureen smiled. "Now you're under my power all the way," she said. "Come on, Arthur, up the steps. You don't want to be late."

In perfect obedience Tragg advanced to the stairs. He ascended to the porch, walking past Maureen and Flo and into the house, heeding some unheard call.

Maureen laughed. "Yes," she purred. "You don't want to be late for your sacrifice." She followed him inside.

She missed Flo's hesitant look. Debating with herself, Flo at last closed the box and trailed after the others.


	14. Climax, Part One

**Chapter Fourteen**

Howie was restless. He was up on the chair, down from the chair, pacing around the room, and up at the window, all in a matter of five minutes.

Watching him, Larry heaved a sigh. "Howie, can't you settle down?" he exclaimed. "We're probably going to be waiting a long time."

"I hate waiting," Howie protested. "And no one can find Mom and Dad! Why? Where are they?"

Larry shook his head. "I wish I knew," he said. "But running around like that is just going to make the wait take that much longer. The police said they'd call the minute they have any news."

"I know." In resignation Howie turned away from the window. "But I still hate it."

"That's too bad, Master Howie. Maybe we can do something about it."

Howie and Larry violently started at the new, and for Larry, familiar, voice. The man he knew as Mr. Greenbrier was strolling into the room, flanked by the same thugs who had attacked Larry at home.

Larry sat up straight in bed, ignoring the stabbing protest his stomach immediately sent up. "What are you doing here?" he cried.

Greenbrier wagged his finger at Larry. "Now, now, I wouldn't recommend getting so worked up, Larry. After all, you're still recovering from our last meeting."

Howie stared. "You guys hurt Larry?" he yelled.

"Unfortunately," Greenbrier sighed. "But I trust there won't be any need for that this time."

Larry glared. "And why is that, Mr. Greenbrier?" Ice dripped from each word.

"Because," Greenbrier said, his speech both even and deliberate, "only _I_ know where Master Howie's parents are." He smiled at the stunned and shocked looks. "You'll come along quietly with us, won't you?"

xxxx

D. Greenbrier lived in a secluded part of the Valley on a small hill. As the groups approached in their various cars, both Della and Andy came to full attention.

"This is it," Andy declared. "I couldn't forget this place."

Della nodded. "I remember several of the children were playing on the hill when we came," she said. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth she stopped and shook her head. "Isn't it strange. Not even that really happened."

Perry's expression darkened. "And that could only mean that, based on Mr. Burger's and Paul's theory, you were deliberately given that memory," he said. "There could be no reason for that, unless someone _wants_ us to come here."

"Then it's a trap," Andy exclaimed.

Perry nodded. "It would seem so."

Della tilted her head to the side. "Perry, you keep talking about their 'theory'," she noted. "I thought that you'd decided that they're right."

Perry sighed. "Mostly I have," he said. "I wouldn't have come this far otherwise." He reached to open the door once Andy had parked.

Della touched his arm to stop him. "I hear a 'but' in that sentence," she said quietly.

Perry froze. He looked back at her, his eyes searching hers. "It seems so fantastic, so impossible," he admitted. "Just think of it—our lives and our memories are utter, complete lies."

Della looked back. "But the truth is so much better," she said. "You and I work together. Mr. Burger is our friend. Even with Lieutenant Tragg . . ." She hesitated, then went on. "His wife is dead, but at least she truly loved him. She would never think of hurting him the way this impostor has."

Perry smiled. ". . . And then you manage to remove all of my doubts," he concluded. "Just as you're doing now."

"We have Mr. Burger and Paul to thank for this," Della said, gently. "Anything I'm doing that helps you is because I listened to them."

Perry glanced towards the door. Hamilton was getting out of his own car and moving to open the door for Mignon. ". . . You're right," Perry said at last.

Della was watching too. She smiled as Perry opened the door in determination and stepped out. She slid out of the vehicle as well.

Up ahead, Mignon was gazing at the mansion in trepidation. "Something is definitely here," she said, "something evil and dark. Even you feel it, don't you?" She addressed Hamilton with a slight inclination of her head.

Hamilton fell silent, considering the query. ". . . I feel something," he agreed. "It's not right."

Paul shivered as he exited the other car. "It gives me the willies, whatever it is," he declared.

Hamilton glanced back at him, and at Steve as he climbed out of Hamilton's car. To be on the safe side, he and Perry had insisted that neither Steve nor Paul drive, with their head injuries. They had opted to ride in the other two vehicles instead. It had been for the best, but it had meant that Hamilton and Mignon had not felt at ease conversing about their unresolved problems. In Hamilton's mind, it still felt like a thin wire of tension extended between them.

On the other hand, he sensed that things had improved between him and Paul. And before they went ahead and faced whatever lay ahead, there was something that Paul deserved to know.

He walked over. "Paul . . ." He hesitated. Paul was looking at him, puzzled, but Hamilton's thoughts were blank. How could he best say what was on his mind? He had had no trouble bursting out with his darker feelings when they had argued in the hospital. It was so much more difficult to find the right words for something like this.

"Paul, I'm sorry for what I said before," he got out at last. "It's been good, working with you. I couldn't have come this far without your help."

Paul's eyes flashed with surprise. It looked as though the proverbial feather could have indeed floored him.

"You don't have to apologize," he finally found himself saying. "We had a truce, remember?"

"_Have,_ I hope," Hamilton said.

Paul nodded. "Right."

Something made him turn and gaze at the house, unsettling and dark as it loomed above them on the hill. At his side, Hamilton was doing the same.

"You and I should go up first," he said to Paul.

"Sure thing," Paul said, but from his tone and his expression he was not sure at all.

Hamilton did not feel much more sure. "You can catch up," he said. He started off, taking the lead.

His thoughts were tumbling. What was going to happen in there? Had all the events of the past days been leading up to this? Was Vivalene waiting inside, along with Heyes and Mr. Vann? Did they know where Tragg was?

. . . When everyone went inside, would all of them come back out?

He glanced back at the others and kept walking. He did not want to consider that.

"Hamilton."

He had just reached for the gate near the top of the hill when the strong hand fell upon his arm. He froze, whirling to stare in disbelief.

Perry was looking back at him. "I . . . wanted to tell you before we go in," he said. "Thank you . . . for not giving up on me."

Hamilton gaped. Though he tried to find the words, his mind was blank once more.

"You kept reaching out to me and I wouldn't have any of it," Perry said. "I . . . I've been too afraid to let go of how I remember things in my own mind. But the truth is . . ." He searched for the words. ". . . It no longer sounds like a fantasy that you and I could be friends."

Hamilton shook himself back to his senses. "Perry," he gasped. "You mean that." This was the Perry Mason he remembered, the Perry Mason whose return he had been fighting for.

Perry smiled. "Of course I mean it," he said. "Now, let's get in there. All of us."

The ground was starting to shake as the group passed through the gate and onto the Greenbrier property. Della jumped a mile as lightning struck a rock in the yard, not far from where they were walking. Perry brought an arm around her as they continued.

"To think, that poor Lieutenant Tragg is out somewhere in this," Della lamented. "We didn't see a sign of him at all."

"Not to worry, darlings. That will change very soon."

Now everyone started. Vivalene had come onto the porch, slinking to the edge in a sultry dress. From her smug expression she had definitely been expecting them.

"Vivalene!" Perry called angrily. "What do you mean?"

Vivalene laughed. "I mean you'll see him again," she said. "And when you do, he will be sealing the curse—of his own free will."

xxxx

The interior of the mansion was impressive. Everyone had to admit that. Through the front doors, the main hall of the abode had been transformed. With its marble floors and stairs, and the balcony that ran the length of the room, it looked every bit the part of a museum. The paintings, sculptures, and various other art pieces only completed the look.

It was the second floor, however, that immediately captured the group's horrified attention. At the top of the staircase was a large and heavy stone slab. Carved into its face were the recognizable likenesses of each and every one of them.

Della gasped. "It's us!" she exclaimed. "We're all on it!"

"Oh yes." Vivalene sashayed up the stairs, her purplish-black evening gown trailing across the smooth marble. "And observe, if you will, the mists rising from every direction of this magnificent, rare work." She ran her hand over Perry's image. Purple wisps were indeed emanating from his carving as well as the rest. They were traveling between the slab and a metal box positioned on the railing.

"What do they mean?" Perry demanded, his voice sharp and taut.

Vivalene rested against the edge of the slab, turning to face him with a sultry smile. "They are continuing to feed this little world of ours," she said. "As long as these objects are pursuing their . . . shall we say, symbiotic relationship, all of you will continue to be under our control."

Hamilton stepped forward. "But they aren't under your control," he declared. "They're all starting to remember. They're rebelling against your outrageous plot!"

Vivalene laughed. She pushed away from the slab, walking to the box. "Maybe for now," she conceded. "However, don't underestimate us! It will only take a few minutes and you will all wallow in confused limbo for the rest of your lives. Well, all except for the two of you." She nodded to Hamilton and Paul. "I think we'll keep it so you still remember. But no one will listen to you at all, not even as much as they currently have. You'll both be branded completely mad. You'll probably eventually have to go on the run to escape being cast into a nut house."

"That's _not_ going to happen," Paul retorted. "We're going to stop you here and now!"

Vivalene straightened. "I think not." She glanced behind the slab. "Alright, darlings. Come out."

Lieutenant Tragg walked out, to the sound of collective gasps. His pace was normal, but something was clearly wrong. He offered no resistance. His face and eyes were blank.

"Tragg!" Hamilton cried. "What's wrong with you?"

Steve stared. "He doesn't look like he's even there," he breathed. "What did they do to him?"

From behind him came Flo. Her face was impassive but not without expression. She looked to the group at the bottom of the stairs.

"He's under Vivalene's control," she said. "We've taken turns playing his wife, but she's done it the most. He still sees her as Maureen."

"Then he's hypnotized," Perry deduced in revulsion. "There aren't words good enough in any language for what you've done to this man. He is devoted to and loves his wife, and you've used that against him to get him to do your every bidding!" He strode forward. "If he won't come to us, we'll go to him and bring him down."

At the bottom of the steps he slammed into an invisible wall. He stumbled back, stunned. "What is this?"

The others ran over. "Another barrier," Mignon said without hope as she touched the impenetrable force. "This one is stronger than the one around the county limits."

Vivalene smirked. "You don't honestly believe I would allow for any loopholes?" She walked to Tragg and laid her hands on his shoulders from behind. "All of you are going to be forced to stand here, watching as he sacrifices himself to the cause. And once he is dead, the spell's power is permanently sealed."

"No!" Della burst out. "No, there has to be a way to stop you!"

"Hey!" Paul exclaimed at the same moment. "This thing isn't solid for me." He had put his arm through the shield.

"For me either," Hamilton said in surprise. He had phased his hand inside.

Vivalene wavered, honestly astonished. She had not expected this, not at all. "Why?" she gasped. "Is it because you remember?"

"Maybe so," Paul said. He stepped through all the way, climbing onto the first step. "It looks like you're going to have some interference after all."

Hamilton nodded firmly, stepping up beside him. "And Tragg's going to wake up," he said. "He isn't our enemy. You can't make him into one."

"Oh dear, what a scene we're coming in on."

Everyone, even Vivalene and Flo, looked up with a jerk. Mr. Vann had just stepped onto the balcony from a room on the second floor. Tightly in his grasp was a terrified Howie. The boy's eyes were wide as he clutched at Vann's arm around his neck.

Both Hamilton and Mignon went pale. "Howie!" Mignon screamed. "How did you get him?"

"He was going to come along quietly," Vann said with a shrug. "Once I told him I knew where his parents were. Your son, I'm afraid, was not so agreeable."

"What have you done with Larry?" Mignon cried.

"He's still alive, Mrs. Germaine," Vann said in a nonchalant voice. "And he's not hurt. Well, at least not _too _much more. He's just been placed where he won't cause any more trouble, along with this boy's parents."

"Then that's why we couldn't find them!" Perry said in anger.

"Quite so. I can't take credit for their abduction, I'm sorry to say. But I did oversee the capture of Master Howie." Vann smiled a sickly smile. "Now I've got you at a standstill. If you continue up these stairs, I'll just have to get rough with the boy. And I'd really prefer not to." Even as he spoke he squeezed a bit harder on Howie's throat, enough to make him squirm and try harder to pull the arm away.

Hamilton and Paul froze. What could they do? It was obvious that Vann meant every word he said. And they could not risk Howie's life. But they also could not allow Tragg to die or for everyone else's lives to be dictated by this insane plot.

"No!" Howie struggled to say. "Please don't listen. Help Lieutenant Tragg." He could barely speak with the pressure on his voicebox.

Hamilton's heart twisted. Howie was trying to be so brave, despite his terror. And the sound of his choked voice was agonizing. Right now, Hamilton wanted to throttle Vann.

"We're not going to let either you or Lieutenant Tragg get hurt, Howie," he vowed.

"I really don't see how you're going to stop both," Vann shrugged. "One or the other, but not both. And no, I won't let Master Howie go."

Hamilton's temper began to bend. "When I get you in court . . ."

"Unfortunately, you won't get the chance," Vann purred.

"Look here, pal!" Paul snarled. "I've known a lot of slimy people, but you're among the worst. Using a kid to force our hands?"

Vann shrugged. "I do what I must," he said.

"We're not going to stand for it," Hamilton snapped. "Alright, we'll come down from the stairs. But you got up there some other way. We'll find where it is."

Several of the group turned to run through the house in search of that alternate route. But Vann's next words stopped them short.

"That won't be hard," he said. "The hard part will be getting up. You see, the barrier applies there as well."

"But Paul and I can still get through," Hamilton said.

"Enough of this!" Vivalene interrupted. "Mr. Vann, or should I say Mr. Greenbrier, I wasn't expecting your arrival. It certainly was timely." She smirked, but it was tight. "In the future I would appreciate being informed of any plans you or Judge Heyes have concocted."

Vann was undaunted. "The judge didn't want to let you in," he said. "He's tired of our black magic. He wants to win this victory in his own way."

"And how do you feel?" Vivalene returned. She moved back to the box.

"Oh . . . I'm perfectly alright with either method," Vann said. "I'm not choosy."

Howie looked back and forth between them. While they were distracted, Hamilton and Paul were trying to creep up the stairs. Flo, although she definitely noticed, did not stop them.

At the bottom, everyone else waited with baited breath. "I can't stand this!" Della fretted. "We're completely helpless!"

Perry laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wait a moment," he counseled. "If the barrier shatters, we have to be ready to run through it and up the stairs."

Andy watched tensely as Hamilton and Paul arrived at the top of the steps. "That other woman knows what's going on," he said. "Why isn't she sounding the alarm?"

"Maybe she's on our side," Perry said.

Steve shook his head. "Or maybe she knows she doesn't need to do anything." He stepped closer, placing his hands on the unseen wall. Vivalene could not have made this situation more maddening if she had tried. He abhorred being trapped here, seeing everything that was happening without being able to do a thing about it. All they could do was pray in desperation for assistance.

Andy turned away. "I'm going to look for that other way up," he said. "We only have Mr. Greenbrier's word that the barrier surrounds it too."

"He's probably right, but we should investigate," Perry agreed.

"I'll come with you," Mignon volunteered.

"Alright." Andy took her arm. "We'll go outside and around the back of the house."

Perry, Della, and Steve watched as they departed. But what was happening upstairs quickly brought their attention back around.

By now Hamilton was standing in front of Tragg, gripping his shoulders. "Tragg, look at me!" he pleaded. "Snap out of it! You can't sacrifice yourself for _this!_"

Tragg blinked, focusing on the man in front of him. "It's not a sacrifice," he said. "I'm going to Maureen. We won't be separated again."

Hamilton rocked back, staring at him in disbelief. "Tragg, you don't know what you're saying!" he cried. "You'd be killing yourself and bringing misery to everyone left behind in the process. Do you really think you'd get back to Maureen that way?"

Tragg wavered. "Mr. Burger . . ." For a split-second his eyes cleared. He shook, seizing his friend's arms. "I don't want to do this!" He was obviously in pain. The more he struggled against the mental shackles, the more agonized he became. He stumbled, crashing into Hamilton, who held onto him.

"You won't have to," Hamilton vowed. "We're going to get you out of here." He looked for his comrade. "Paul, give me a hand!"

Paul was staring at the slab, frowning deeply. "The more Tragg resists, the more this purple stuff gets piped into his image," he said. "Vivalene said this thing and the box work together, right?"

He looked to where she was arguing with Vann. By now Flo had gone over to her, tense. Vivalene looked ready to blast Vann with the box. And Howie was caught right in the middle. Andy and Mignon, who suddenly appeared at a doorway upstairs but could come forward no farther, stared in alarm.

Hamilton turned to follow Paul's gaze. "Howie!" he said in horror. "If Vivalene does anything to Vann, Howie will probably get the worst of it. I have to get him out of there!"

"Just listen for a minute!" Paul said in desperation. "If those things work together, maybe we can stop all of this—the spell, Tragg being mind-controlled, Howie getting hurt—by knocking the slab over and breaking it!"

Hamilton started. Paul had his full attention now. "You think so?" he said. He was skeptical but willing to try. By now just about anything seemed possible.

Paul positioned himself on one side of the slab. "It's worth a try," he said. "Come on, you and Tragg can help me!"

Hamilton debated with himself for only a second before hurrying to the other side of the slab. "Tragg, get over here!" he exclaimed. "Push it in the middle."

Tragg took a step forward and stopped, taking in the scene. His eyes flickered. The part of his mind that was his own wanted to help. But the part that Vivalene had taken over wanted the slab to stay in place. And as Hamilton and Paul braced themselves against it and fought to knock it down, it was that part that took control.

"No, don't!" Tragg yelled without warning. He ran forward, shoving Hamilton to the floor. Paul, unable to tip the slab by himself, straightened in shock. Tragg whirled, running at Paul now.

Paul snatched his wrists, trying to hold him back. "Stop it!" he commanded in vain.

Now Vivalene and Vann were at full attention, their argument forgotten. As Hamilton shakily got up, stunned by the attack, Vivalene was upon him in an instant before he could fully recover.

"You see?" she purred. "I knew Arthur would come through for me in the end. You've still failed. And now you'll discover another use for this box. I've been using it to kill Arthur very slowly. I can also use it to kill someone very fast."

Hamilton reached to push her away, but she lunged too quickly. She leaned in, kissing him on the lips at the same moment she lifted the lid on the box all the way. The dark force inside drilled into his body, propelling him off the landing. He tumbled down the stairs, only coming to a stop at the very bottom.

Dead silence reigned for one brief moment. Everyone stood in utter, disbelieving shock, unable to process what had just happened. Hamilton was lying at the bottom of the marble stairs, not moving. How had he got there? Had Vivalene really blasted him with the contents of the box? Why wasn't he getting up? Had Vivalene's threat come true?

The haunting shriek broke the silence and shattered all trains of thought.

"Mr. Burger! Mr. Burger!" Howie fought to get away from Vann, flailing and kicking in every direction. "Let me go to him! He's hurt! _Mr. Burger!_"

Vann held on tight. "Now, now, Master Howie, there's nothing you can do for him." He spoke in a calm, patronizing tone, which only served to infuriate Howie and everyone else even more.

Mignon, standing behind the barrier on the second floor, was now gripping it in horror. "No," she gasped. "Oh no." Her heart was pounding, her knees weak.

At her side, Andy drew an arm around her waist to hold her up. "There's nothing we can do up here," he said. "Let's go back down and around. Maybe he's outside the barrier and we can help him."

Trembling, Mignon managed a nod. Andy led her out of sight.

Perry had already dropped to his knees next to the motionless form. He lifted the limp wrist, searching with baited breath for a pulse. Vivalene had said her actions would kill him, but she could have been mistaken. He could have survived the blast and the fall. He could be alive but badly hurt.

He could be . . . but he was not.

Perry bowed his head, an unquenchable grief sweeping over his heart and soul. "Oh Hamilton," he whispered. Gently he laid the motionless arm across the man's chest.

Della and Steve had come over now as well. "He's dead then," Steve realized quietly.

Della sank down, the tears filling her eyes. "No," she choked out. "No, he can't be."

Perry pulled her close with one arm. "He was valiant to the very last," he said. "Our comrade and friend."

At the top of the stairs, Paul was staring. Tragg, whom he was still holding onto, had been distracted from their fight by the fall. Howie, realizing he could not get away from Vann to go to Hamilton, was sobbing quietly.

_Dead,_ Paul thought in disbelieving shock. _Burger's dead._

Suddenly he snapped back to the full situation. He gripped Tragg's wrists all the more firmly. "Look at that!" he burst out, giving the older man a shake. "Someone's dead because of this slab you're trying to protect. And because of _you._ You caught him off-guard so Vivalene could kill him! What would Maureen think of you now?"

Tragg looked to Paul and then back down the stairs. Slowly he pulled his wrists free, trembling at the sight. "No," he gasped. "What have I done? Oh, what have I done?"

"You've done exactly as you've been told," Vivalene said smoothly as she strolled to his side. "Exactly as you wanted. You wanted to preserve the slab, didn't you? You want to sacrifice yourself to it and be with your precious wife forever."

Tragg turned to face her. At first his expression was unclear. But then it set and he was enraged.

"I never wanted it to be like this!" he roared. "I was going to help destroy the slab. In fact, I still am!" He moved to rush to it.

Vivalene interfered, stepping in front of him with the box. "I'll kill you just as I killed Mr. Burger," she threatened. "Only your death will seal the spell for all time."

"And no one will do anything as long as I have the boy," Vann reminded.

Paul looked around, his heart sinking. They really were trapped, weren't they? There was nothing they could do. This barrier kept everyone from rushing the villains. And Vann was keeping anyone inside the barrier from fighting back. Yet they could not allow Tragg to be killed either. Did it come down to sacrificing either him or Howie? He couldn't make such a horrible choice. None of them could.

Downstairs, Andy and Mignon had come back inside. The sight of Hamilton's lifeless body sent a new wave of horror through Mignon. All she wanted was to go to him, clinging to a thread of hope that maybe he wasn't dead, maybe Mr. Mason had made a mistake, maybe he could be revived. But the commotion upstairs drew her attention there.

"Wait," she said. A quiet realization had begun to form in her mind. "What if there's another way to fight back?"

Perry looked up with a start. "What do you mean?"

"The whole purpose of the spell is to toy with and alter our minds and memories," Mignon said. "And it's our rebelling against it that has caused so much destruction to Los Angeles. Perhaps, if we focused all of our mental energy on what Mr. B- . . . what we were told our true memories are, the spell would collapse altogether."

Perry listened, frowning deeply. "It's a good idea," he said. "Only what if we cause the building to collapse on top of us? This may very well be the epicenter."

"Maybe if we broke the slab at the same time?" Paul called from upstairs.

Vivalene's lips twisted in a cruel smirk. Disturbingly, and perhaps surprisingly, she did not seem bothered. "Why don't you try it?" she said.

Paul frowned. "Just what else do you have up your slinky little sleeves?" he demanded. "You didn't want this slab busted a moment ago."

Vivalene just shrugged. "Darling, I admire your tenacity," she said. "Yours and all the others. You're so determined to fight against your fates."

Tragg walked around her and to the slab. "Let's try it," he said. "Quickly, while I'm still in control of myself." He positioned himself at one side.

Still suspicious, but not knowing what else to do, Paul got back on the opposite side.

"Now," Mignon directed from below, "concentrate! Don't think about the memories you've considered as true. Think about our other lives, the lives we were leading before any of this happened." Her words caught in her throat. _The life that I could not fully immerse myself in._

It was not an easy task. The more she and the others tried to focus on what Hamilton and Paul had told them, the more the other memories tried to slip in—painful, unkind, hurtful memories. There were even some memories that were not bad at all, but still must surely be false. _Push them all aside,_ Mignon silently told herself. Around her, the others were giving themselves similar instructions. Steve, who had only been given a crash course that day on what was happening, was bewildered. But he added his will to the others'.

The mental energy began to gradually fill the room, small at first but increasing until it could be tangibly felt. The floor rumbled underneath the group. Works of art wobbled and crashed to the hard marble.

Vann set his jaw. In fury he released Howie, shoving him aside as he stormed to Vivalene. "What's the matter with you?" he yelled. "You're letting this happen! You're allowing them to destroy everything I've worked for and collected through the years!"

"It's a small price to pay!" Vivalene retorted. "You don't really think I'd let them do this if I didn't have a backup plan, do you?" She started to raise the lid on the box. "Frankly, darling, you and the good judge have been cramping my style for a long time now. I've done just fine without either of you."

"Oh? Without me you never would have learned about that box or the slab!" Vann said in disgust.

"Well . . . that's true," Vivalene acknowledged. "And I'm thankful to you. But that doesn't change that I believe you've worn out your welcome." By all indications she was about to blast him. At the last moment she turned, firing at Tragg.

It was Howie charging her, knocking the box from her hands, that saved him. The blast struck the balcony railing instead, sending several wooden spokes raining on the group below.

Too much was happening at once. The earthquake from the strength of the rebellion was violently shaking the entire house. In a burst of protectiveness, Perry pulled Della close. As the ceiling started to split open Mignon threw herself across Hamilton's body, desperate to keep him safe from falling debris. Somewhere upstairs she heard the sound of something heavy smashing to the floor, hopefully the slab. She shut her eyes tight, focusing on the task at hand. But even as she continued to shield Hamilton in desperation, she could feel that he was too cold, too still.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Once again all was silent. Slowly, cautiously, Mignon looked up.

The ceiling was cracked, but very little had fallen from it. The floor was split wide in several places. Windows had shattered, glass spilling on the marble and wisps of purple mist spilling out the openings.

Paul and Tragg were sprawled on the floor. They got to their feet, kicking aside pieces of broken slab. Mr. Vann was trying to make a break for it. Paul grabbed him, delivering a knockout punch and tying him with his own tie. Flo, also on the run, was quickly stopped and handcuffed by Tragg. Vivalene was nowhere in sight.

And then Howie was running down the stairs in tears. "Mignon!" he cried. "Mignon, are you okay? Is Mr. Burger really . . ." But he trailed off at the sight of the body. "Tell me, Mr. Mason!" he begged instead. "Tell me he's alive!"

"I'm sorry, Howie," Perry said quietly, his voice taut. "I can't tell you what isn't true."

It was what Howie had known in his heart but had not been able to accept. He fell to his knees, crying for his friend and godfather.

Perry and the others bowed their heads in grief. They may have won, but it was a bitter victory. The cost had been too high.


	15. Climax, Part Two

**Chapter Fifteen**

The storm and the earthquake had ended. In the home of Mr. Vann, alias D. Greenbrier, there were no longer boxes and slabs glowing with purple energy. The villains' plans had been frustrated.

But the house was not quiet. The heartbroken sobs of Howie Peterson echoed off the walls and ceiling. Any attempts to comfort him were in vain. And the comforters themselves needed comfort. They felt every bit as horrible, even if they did not show it the same way.

"I can't believe he's gone," a tearful Della said. "It happened so fast, it was unreal."

Perry held her close. "Death is often like that, in war," he said. His voice was quiet but filled with the heaviness of his heart.

"He didn't even cry out in pain," Della said. "I wonder if he felt anything or if he was gone that instant."

Perry sighed. "I keep thinking of how he looked that first day, when he came to my office," he said. "I rejected his claims that we were friends. I didn't think it was true. I didn't _want_ to think that it was true. And the look in his eyes, right before he left. . . ." He shook his head. "It will never stop haunting me."

"Perry . . ." Della looked up at him. "You can't blame yourself for that."

"Can't I?" Perry shook his head. "I saw that look again and again. When he drove me to the Club Caribe to find you, he tried to tell me the way things were. I flat-out refused him. I told him that in my mind it was a fantasy that we could ever be friends. He looked . . . he looked so helpless and discouraged, as well as hurt."

"But you went to talk to him before we came in here," Della reminded him. "Didn't you tell him you'd had a change of heart?"

Perry nodded. "Yes. It may not have been as complete as he would have liked to hear, but considering how immovable I've been it was definitely a few steps up."

"And how did he look then?" Della persisted.

Perry thought about it. "Happy," he said. "As though a heavy weight had been lifted."

Della gave a bittersweet smile. "You can't take away the past," she said. "But you can remember that moment and be grateful that at least you made peace with him before the end."

Perry closed his eyes. "You're right," he said. "Of course I'm grateful for that."

Tragg, who had stumbled down the stairs with Paul after a vain search for Vivalene, crashed to his knees next to the body. "Oh, Mr. Burger," he rasped. "This should never have happened. You lost your life over a stubborn old fool who wouldn't listen and couldn't let go of the past." He covered his eyes with an unsteady hand.

Andy watched him, feeling both horrible and uncomfortable. "You can't blame yourself, Sir," he said. "You were under that woman's power. Whatever she arranged, it was not you who pushed Mr. Burger."

"It was my hands that pushed him," Tragg said bitterly. "I can never forgive myself for this."

Paul clenched a fist. He had already been feeling guilty over some of what had happened the last few days. Now, at the sharp remembrance of words he had screamed at Tragg in his anger and . . . yes, his grief, he felt ten times worse.

"Look, Tragg," he said, "I didn't mean what I said to you. I should never have said that. Andy's right; you couldn't help what happened. You'd never deliberately do anything to hurt Burger."

"No." Tragg looked back at him. "Everything you said was the truth. I needed to hear it. The shock of those words was what finally brought me back to myself. I didn't even know what I had done. Not really."

Paul shook his head. "I still made it sound like you were trying to hurt him or that you didn't care." He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry."

Howie looked up, the tears still overflowing in his bright eyes. "I don't even remember anything different," he said.

A stunned hush fell over the group. It was true. With the shock of Hamilton's death, they had not had time to notice before. But for every one of them it was their current memories in place, the memories Hamilton and Paul had said were fake.

"What happened?" Paul exclaimed now. He looked to Mignon, as if she would have the answers. "Is the spell not broken after all?"

Mignon shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I don't understand any better than you." The news was deeply troubling. What did it mean? Had Hamilton died in vain? Was there no way to shatter the spell? By all rights, it should have stopped.

Paul hit the floor with the palm of his hand. "I _knew_ Vivalene was acting funny!" he cried.

"And now she's gone," Perry frowned. "She knew it wouldn't work. She let us try to break the spell so she would have the chance to escape."

Tragg slumped back, stunned. "_Something_ is different," he said. "My mind is clear. Breaking the slab must have at least released me from her control."

"But why didn't it do everything?" Paul berated.

"Maybe it will take a while for the memories we have to be replaced by the truth," Mignon said.

Her voice was strained and far away. As distressed as she was by the news, she could only focus on one problem at a time. And right now she was filled with the horror and devastation that came from knowing that she had waited too long to mend her relationship with Hamilton. It was too late.

"Hamilton," she whispered, bending over his body once more. His skin was so pale, so cold, so devoid of life. "You wanted me to call you that again. I felt I could not. And even though I thought I believed you, part of me did not. I didn't even realize that until now. If I had believed you with all of my heart and soul, I would have found it so easy to reject the memories you said were false.

"I always considered you a prideful man. But it's my own pride that has allowed you to die with that heartache still bleeding inside."

She shook her head. "Tonight I said I would throw those memories away. I vowed to both Larry and Howie that I was ready to do it. But I didn't tell you. I wanted to be alone to discuss it with you, and there was never a chance. Now there never will be." She touched his cheek. "Wherever you are, I pray you've found peace. And that you know now what you didn't hear from me."

Paul looked away. He could not help hearing at least some of her broken-hearted words, as he was sure the others did too. It was horribly tragic and ironic. She still did not have the privacy she had wanted in order to tell Burger the truth. But now that he was gone, her defenses had crumbled. She did not care if she was overheard.

Burger had come to him before they had entered this place, wanting to make amends for that stupid argument they had gotten into at the hospital. And Paul had been too surprised and stunned to even find the right words to reply. He had just said something brief and turned his attention to the house instead.

"I should have told you," he muttered sadly. "You thought I hated you. I never did. I didn't understand you. But you grew on me after a while." He paused. "I think that . . . even though I didn't think I knew it, we were friends all along."

He hesitated again, then slowly laid a hand on Hamilton's shoulder. "I'm glad we worked together too," he said gruffly. "_I_ couldn't have done all this on my own, either. We needed each other's help."

He frowned. That did not sound quite right. "No," he corrected, "we needed each other."

Andy and Steve exchanged grim looks. They did not remember either, but this was a deep blow to them as well. They did not have to remember to be shaken to the core.

"This should never have happened," Steve growled.

"If anyone should be blamed, it's Vivalene," Andy said. "She manipulated us all along the way. We were her marionettes."

Perry nodded in complete agreement.

"It's not fair!" Howie burst out. "Mr. Burger shouldn't have died. Vivalene should have died!" He stared at the floor, his shoulders shaking. "She should have died," he said again, quieter this time.

Perry looked down. He, or someone, should respond. Howie should be told that Hamilton would not want him to say that. But somehow he could not bring himself to do it. If someone had to die, then of course he would rather it had been Vivalene than Hamilton. From Mignon's shattered expression, she felt much the same.

It was Della who gathered Howie close. "Mr. Burger shouldn't have died, Howie," she said softly. "I guess . . ." Tears pricked her eyes. "I guess God needed him."

"More than us?" Howie wailed.

Della's heart caught in her throat. "I don't know," she confessed.

Howie turned, throwing his arms around Della as he cried harder. The tears slipped from Della's eyes, her heart broken by his grief as well as by the deep loss she felt. Mr. Burger had been her friend. She did not remember him, but those feelings were real and true.

The sound of shattering glass resounded throughout the hall. Everyone looked up, stunned. "What broke?" Paul exclaimed.

"I don't know," Perry started to say. "It was too large to be . . ." But he trailed off. Something was coming back to him. No . . . _everything_ was coming back to him. Della, Hamilton, Andy. . . . He remembered. He _remembered._

He shot looks at everyone else with equal parts shock and amazement. They were remembering too.

"That sound was the spell breaking," he realized.

Andy's eyes widened. "Arthur . . . !" He spun around to face Tragg at the same moment Tragg was turning to look at him.

"How could I have forgotten?" Tragg berated. "_Andy!_ Of course I remember you."

"I actually thought I was a school principal," Andy said in disbelief. "How . . . ?" He shook his head. "How could I have forgotten so much that I know and cherish? How could I have forgotten you? The police department? Even Mr. Burger and Perry and the others?"

"I don't know how any of this happened," Tragg said. "How could I have thought that witch was my wife? How could I have shoved Mr. Burger and led her to him?" He shook his head. "Hamilton . . . Maureen . . . please forgive me." He looked down in guilt-stricken grief. "Please forgive me."

Andy laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure they have," he said, quietly.

Steve shook his head. "I know all of you," he said. "None of this makes sense, but it's all real. I didn't remember any of you. Now I do." He gazed at Hamilton. _He was my friend too._

Della stared at Perry. "It's all come back to me," she declared. Her voice was hushed, as though to raise it now, especially under the tragic circumstances, would be sacrilegious. "It feels so unreal, I think I'm numb from the shock. So many memories were lost, so many things and people I've treasured. Perry, I didn't even remember working for you. I didn't remember you at all!"

"Subconsciously we remembered," Perry said. "But you were right, Della; we only did anything about it after we heard Hamilton and Paul."

Della swallowed hard. "Poor Hamilton."

Both she and Perry looked to the motionless form. Now that they remembered, the anguish was far more pronounced. Perry had thought he had felt guilty before. It was nothing compared to how he felt now.

"Oh Hamilton," he said quietly, his voice filled with pain, "what did we do to you?"

Mignon was not a person who showed many of her emotions. But the sudden return of everything Hamilton had told her and pleaded for her to try to accept was too much for her to bear. Her cry of agony chilled everyone present.

"What did _I_ do to you?" she wailed. "Hamilton, my dear, dear friend. You tried so hard to get through to me, but I wounded you at every turn. I believed my false memories more than I believed you."

Howie looked at her, his eyes wide. But then, shuddering, he looked away again as the tears started anew. "He'd know it wasn't your fault, Mignon," he said.

Mignon started. Howie's plaintive voice was forcefully bringing her to a full awareness of what was going on around her. Howie was heartbroken too. And she was his godmother. She should be trying to be strong for him. Hamilton's death had completely shattered her. But young Howie had demonstrated that in spite of his own grief, he was still trying to be comforting.

"Oh Howie . . ." She reached for him, drawing him close. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that in front of you."

Howie clutched at her black dress, tightly shutting his eyes. "It's okay, Mignon," he said. Several more tears slipped out. "I know you're hurting really bad."

"But so are you," Mignon said softly. "It isn't an excuse."

"No, but it's a reason," Perry said from behind her. "Everyone grieves differently." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "No one blames you. I'm feeling horrible myself. There's so many things I wish I could take back or do over. I don't know that this regret and sorrow will ever completely go away. I'm sure every one of us wishes we had done things differently."

Paul nodded. "Even me, and I never forgot," he said.

"He isn't dead."

The sullen yet high-pitched voice brought everyone's attention up. Flo, still handcuffed, had come to the landing of the stairs. Her words sounded callous and cold to the mourners.

Mignon got to her feet. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "How can you say he isn't dead? We have tried to revive him. We know that he is dead."

Flo shook her head. "Vivalene had a backup plan, alright," she said. "And she thought it was the cruelest way to get back at all of you, but especially him. When she blasted him with the Forbidden Box, she put him into an enchanted death and bound that spell up with our main spell. The stipulation was that if you people didn't care about him enough to mourn him and count his death a great personal loss, even though you didn't remember the truth, the spell still wouldn't break and you would all wander in limbo."

Perry stood too. "She had that little faith in us?" he exclaimed. He did not know whether to believe her or not. But he had observed that Flo seemed to be more forthright than Vivalene was. _Seemed_ being the keyword.

"She was hoping she'd planted enough bad seeds that you'd just be shaken up over someone being killed in general and not really care about him personally," Flo said. "Of course, the counter-cause was that if you were grief-stricken over him the spell would break and you'd remember everything. Which it has and you do."

"But he isn't awake." Mignon looked back to Hamilton.

"You know, he probably hit his head when he fell," Flo said. "That might keep him out for a while even after the spell breaks. I guess you didn't think to see if he was breathing."

"Not once the spell broke," Perry said. "We tried repeatedly before that."

He looked back to Mignon as she fell to her knees next to Hamilton's body. Could Flo be trusted? Or was this one last cruel trick, another way to get back at them? He knelt down again too._ Please don't let this be a false hope._

"Hamilton?" Mignon whispered. "Are you still with us? . . . Is it possible?" Shakily she took his wrist, searching for a pulse.

Howie scrambled over too, his eyes wide. "Please, Mr. Burger!" he begged. "Please wake up. Please don't be dead."

Della looked to Perry in worry. "What do you think, Perry?" she asked.

Perry shook his head. "I'm afraid to believe," he said. "It sounds like another of Vivalene's cruel tricks that . . ."

He never finished his sentence. Hamilton stirred, groaning quietly as he forced his eyes open halfway. He gazed up at Mignon and Howie, not really awake enough to focus on them.

Della's fingers dug into Perry's arm. "Perry!" she gasped.

"Mr. Burger!" Howie exclaimed. His voice caught in his throat. "You're alive. You're really alive!" He hugged Hamilton tightly, shuddering with joyous tears.

"Howie?" Hamilton mumbled in confusion. "What . . ." He reached up, bringing his free hand to rest on Howie's back. "I don't understand."

Mignon, still holding his other hand, gripped it tightly. "Hamilton." She smiled, her voice choked with emotion. "We thought we'd lost you."

His eyes widened. Even while not fully awake, he recognized the significance of her actions and words. "Mignon, you . . ." He stared at her in amazed joy.

"I remember," she assured him. "All of us remember. But . . ." She drew a shaking breath. "I'd decided to let go of my false memories before that. I didn't take the chance to tell you. Then I thought . . . I thought I'd never have that chance at all."

More conscious now, Hamilton pushed himself into a sitting position. Immediately he cringed, reaching to touch a tender spot on his head. ". . . I fell down the stairs," he remembered. "Is that why you thought I was . . ."

Mignon gently pried his hand away to examine the injury. "No," she said. Anger saturated her voice as she explained, "Vivalene used her dark energy to make you look dead."

"_What?"_ Hamilton burst out. He shut his eyes, bringing a hand to his now-aching forehead. ". . . That was a stupid thing to do," he muttered.

"Hamilton." Perry rested a hand on Hamilton's shoulder. "I . . ." He swallowed hard. "I am so sorry for how I treated you."

Hamilton slowly opened his eyes, looking up at him. "Perry, you couldn't help it," he said in surprise. "You didn't remember. If the situation had been reversed, I probably would have acted the same. No—worse."

"Maybe so," Perry said, "but that doesn't make me feel any better about it."

"How can you ever forgive us?" Tragg said with regret. "Especially me? It's because of me that you were almost killed." He shook his head. "I'm such a fool."

"Tragg, you weren't yourself," Hamilton said. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what they did to you. I don't and I probably never will. But I know enough to realize that something was wrong. You'd never act like you did if you were in your right mind."

Tragg nodded. "That's true," he conceded.

Della smiled. "This is wonderful," she proclaimed. "Mr. Burger, I'm so happy you're alright!"

"Thank you," Hamilton said. He was both appreciative and awkward of the attention. He was not used to so much concern all at once from so many. He hated that he had made them worry and grieve over him. Of course, he had not been able to help it, but he still did not like it.

"We're all happy," Andy said.

Steve confirmed it. "You're a good man," he said. "We don't want to lose you."

Hamilton thanked them both and leaned back, blinking in realization. Someone had held off.

He looked to Paul, questions in his eyes. Paul was just to his right and a bit behind. When their eyes met, instead of looking away or shifting in embarrassment, Paul smiled.

"Welcome back," he said. "Wouldn't you know it—I missed you."

Hamilton smiled too. "Well. What do you know about that."

xxxx

Several minutes later Mignon had finished her examination. The spot paining Hamilton was tender to the touch but not bleeding. "You should see a doctor," she said in all sternness.

Hamilton sighed. "I guess I probably should," he agreed. The thought of having struck his head somewhere on the cold marble made him cringe. "I'm feeling stronger now. We should go." But as he reached for the bottom of the banister to support himself, he paused. "Wait a minute. Where's Vivalene?"

"She got away," Tragg said in disgust. "But Flo and Vann are on the second floor."

Hamilton struggled to his feet with the support of Perry, Mignon, and Tragg. At the same moment, the sound of a door crashing open came from somewhere upstairs. Everyone jerked to attention.

"What's going on up there?" Tragg called. He reached for his gun out of habit before he remembered he did not have it.

Larry limped to the second-floor railing. "We were trapped in a room back there," he announced. "When the earthquake stopped, we couldn't get out. Yelling for help didn't do any good. It must be soundproof. We just broke the door in now." Douglas and Martha Peterson appeared behind him.

Mignon hurried to the stairs, followed swiftly by a delighted Howie. "Mom! Dad!" he exclaimed. He bounded up the steps, reaching to hug them both at once.

They pulled him close. "Howie," Douglas said with emotion, "we were so worried. Larry told us what happened with Mr. Vann at the hospital."

"I'm okay," Howie said. "What about you and Mom?"

"We're fine," Martha assured him.

"Mr. Burger almost died!" Howie said emphatically. "You're not going to tell me I can't see him any more, are you?"

His parents exchanged a guilty look. "We remember the truth now," Douglas said. "Of course you can still see him." He looked over the railing, concerned to see how Hamilton was faring.

"I feel terrible about all this," Martha exclaimed. "I don't really know what happened to us, but it must have been like Mr. Burger said."

"It was!" Howie declared. "Just like that!"

Larry looked guilty too. "Mother . . ." He tried to stand up straighter as Mignon came to him. "I'm so sorry. I tried to protect Howie when Vann and his goons barged into the room, but . . ."

"Shh. It wasn't your fault." Mignon laid a hand on his arm.

"And I feel just rotten about how I acted with Mr. Burger." Larry looked down. "I don't know how he'll stand to keep working with me."

"He doesn't hold any hard feelings towards any of us," Mignon said, her tone firm. "It will be fine."

"Oh, and there's one more thing." Larry glanced behind him. "We found that redhead Vivalene collapsed on the floor near the room we were locked in. She's alive, but we couldn't wake her up."

Flo smirked. "There was one other little counter-clause to that spell," she said. "I knew about it, but I didn't tell her. If the spell shattered, it would backfire on the wielder. She's in a coma now, with little chance of waking up."

"Oh?" Perry looked up at her from the bottom of the stairs. "Why is that?"

Flo shrugged. "There's no one who cares enough about her to be able to bring her out of it. Fitting, isn't it?"

Paul looked away, chilled by her flippant attitude. "You know, I thought Flo wasn't as bad as her sister," he said. "Now I'm not so sure."

Hamilton studied her for a long moment before averting his gaze. "I've felt that she's just as bad, if not worse in her own way."

"Well, so you still have her to prosecute," Paul said. "And now Vann too."

"And we have to catch up with Judge Heyes," Hamilton said. He frowned. "My biggest problem now is how I'm going to explain what happened to Vivalene without mentioning black magic. And what other charges I'll be able to bring against the rest of her crew."

"You'll figure it out, Hamilton," Perry said. "But I have a feeling that this is going to be a very interesting hearing."


	16. Aftermath

**Chapter Sixteen**

It was a dread to leave Vann's home and see the level of damage that the final earthquake had done to Los Angeles. But once the police units that Tragg had called for arrived, as well as the cabs that Douglas had sent for, the group had to brave the scene.

Della cringed as they stepped onto the porch. One of the white pillars holding up the overhang was now at the point of collapse. They had to be careful not to bump it. "How horrible!" she exclaimed. The yard was completely overturned. The gate was partially coming out of its foundation. A large tree was almost on the ground. Several heavy branches from it already were. And from her vantage point, it was clear that the destruction continued far below the hill.

Perry frowned, keeping his arm around her shoulders. "How bad is it in the city?" he asked Officer Jimmy Anderson, who was jogging up to the porch.

Jimmy sighed, shaking his head. "Well, it's not good," he said. "I know Los Angeles has seen worse, but this is the worst quake we've had in a while. At least, that's what I've heard." He caught sight of Andy, who was making his way to the front of the procession. "Andy, what happened?"

Andy looked weary himself. "Before I answer that, how much do you remember, Jimmy?" he asked.

"Everything!" Jimmy exclaimed. "I have all my normal memories, but I also remember all these weird things that have been happening the last few days. I remember how a lot of us were going around in a fog, not even knowing each other or holding the same jobs. Andy, you were a principal!"

"I know, I know," Andy said, waving his hands to silence his cousin. "I'm going to have a rough time explaining this to the school board."

"I think all of L.A. is confused," Jimmy said. "They're also finally waking up about transportation. They can't figure out why everything was grounded or why no one could leave the county limits."

"I wonder if it would make it better or worse to tell them all the full truth," Perry commented.

"With the state they're in now, they might actually believe it!" Jimmy said.

"Only to dismiss it when they're over the initial shock," Andy said. He glanced back at the house. "In answer to your question, Jimmy, we've just come from the final battle against the villains Mr. Burger and Mr. Drake told us about. That's why everyone's memories are back."

"Mr. Vann and Flo are here," Tragg said as he and Steve led them out.

"Vivalene's unconscious," Steve said. "We sent for an ambulance to pick her up."

Jimmy gaped. "What kind of trouble did she get herself into?"

Andy glanced back at Hamilton, who was making his way down the stairs with Perry and Mignon assisting. "Let's just say her plans backfired," he said.

Jimmy followed his gaze. "Is Mr. Burger hurt?" he exclaimed.

Overhearing, Hamilton looked up. "Not seriously," he was quick to interject.

Mignon shot him a Look. "I hope you're still planning to let a doctor decide that," she said.

Hamilton sighed. "Yes. Don't worry, Mignon."

"I'll drive," she told him.

"We can get your statements later, if that would be better," Jimmy said.

"I'll give you my side of it right now," Andy said.

"As will I," Tragg said, noticeably subdued.

Andy looked back to him. _You don't have to tell it all,_ he said with his eyes.

Tragg waved him off. He would tell as much as he felt he could without making himself sound insane.

Della followed Perry, Mignon, and Hamilton to Hamilton's car. Hamilton passed the keys to Mignon, looking relieved to sink into the passenger seat.

Perry glanced over his shoulder. "I'll stay and give my statement too," he determined. "Andy was driving my car, since my arm was injured."

"You don't need to stay here, Perry," Della said. "I'll drive. I'll be ready to go in just a few minutes."

Perry smiled. "Well, in that case, I may just change my plans."

He looked to Hamilton. Though he wanted to talk with his fellow attorney, this did not seem the right time or place. But if it were not for how worn-out Hamilton looked, Perry might have decided to take a lesson from Mignon and spoken with him anyway. There was a lot he wanted to say, so he determined to wait.

"Hamilton. Let me know how it goes," he requested instead.

Hamilton regarded him in momentary confusion. "Huh? Oh. With the doctor. Of course." Understanding dawned in his eyes.

Perry nodded. "I'll see you later." He stepped aside to talk with Paul, sensing that Della wanted a private moment.

Mignon moved away from the car as well. "I need to see if anyone else is coming with us," she said. "We might not need the cabs, depending on how many are staying here."

Hamilton nodded. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll wait here." He closed his eyes, resting against the car's plush seat.

Della hesitated. Now that they were alone she was contemplating what she wanted to say. How could she put all of her thoughts, all of her feelings into a few words? So much had happened.

"You didn't get hurt in that last earthquake, did you?"

She started. She had not even realized that Hamilton knew she had stayed. "What? . . . No," she hurried to add as his question processed. "No, I didn't get hurt at all. Perry was shielding me. Mignon was protecting you," she recalled.

"I thought everyone thought I was dead then."

"We did," Della said, quietly. "But at that point we were still clinging to a thread of hope. And . . . Mignon didn't want any falling debris to hurt you more, even if you were . . ." She trailed off. It was hard to know how to even phrase that statement so it did not sound preposterous—or at least impractical.

But Hamilton understood. He sighed quietly in a way that indicated his regret over how Mignon and the rest had agonized for him.

Sensing she should change the subject, Della said, "It's strange. I didn't have much trouble at all believing what you and Paul were saying. It sounded so right. And now that I remember everything, the last few days don't feel real." Her voice lowered. "But they were."

Hamilton opened his eyes, looking to her. "You were the first to believe us without any baggage attached," he said. "That meant a lot."

Della smiled, but it was bittersweet. "What Vivalene did was just outrageous," she said as she sobered. "And I don't understand what she had against you. Was it really just that you were prosecuting her?"

"I don't know," Hamilton admitted. "We probably never will, either."

"Well." Out of the corner of her eye Della saw that Mignon was coming back. "I should let you go. Please just rest easy for a while," she implored, touching his shoulder.

"Don't worry," Hamilton said. "I should be able to now. You go make sure that Perry doesn't try driving himself home."

Della straightened in mock indignation. "He'd better not!" She started to leave, then glanced back with a smile. "Goodnight, Mr. Burger."

"Goodnight," Hamilton returned.

He watched her walk over to Perry and Paul. When Mignon opened the driver's door of the car, however, he turned his attention to her.

"Lieutenant Drumm says he'll ride back in one of the squad cars," Mignon said. "The Petersons are going to take a cab when they finish giving their statements. And Mr. Drake will ride back with Mr. Mason and Miss Street."

"So it's just us and Larry," Hamilton deduced.

Mignon nodded. "He's coming now." She wanted to have both of them checked out by a doctor as soon as possible. And she would just as soon be alone with them on the journey. She was still deeply shaken by what had happened, albeit now she had managed to give herself the outward appearance of calm.

When Larry reached the car, he had Howie in tow. "Someone here wants to say goodbye," he announced. Stumbling a bit, he pulled open the back door and climbed into the car. Mignon watched him in concern. "I'm alright, Mother," he tried in vain to reassure her.

The kid looked up at Hamilton with plaintive eyes. "You're gonna be okay, aren't you?" he asked.

Hamilton smiled at him. "Of course," he said. "I'll call you when I get home, if it's not too late."

Howie beamed. "It won't be too late!" he declared. Not wanting to hold them up, he said his goodbyes and hurried back to his parents. Halfway there, he turned and waved. Hamilton returned the gesture.

He fumbled with the seatbelt, finally clicking it into place. He knew Mignon was not really as composed as she wanted to appear. She abhorred being vulnerable, not only for herself but because she could not stand to do anything that would make others worry about her. Of course, it was worrisome when she sealed herself off too. There was no way to know what was going through her mind.

He sensed that she intended to stay quiet for a while, perhaps as she tried to get to where she would not break down the moment she opened her mouth. Perhaps he should follow suit and just wait until after being examined to say anything.

He leaned against the headrest, again closing his eyes.

xxxx

"So, what did Hamilton have to say?"

Della gave Perry a slightly amused, coy smirk as she opened the door of his car. "He was worried about you trying to drive yourself home," she said.

"Oh, was he now." Perry slid into the passenger seat.

"Mmhmm." Della waited for Paul and then got in as well, starting the engine.

Paul leaned back, draping an arm across the top of the backseat's headrest. "Boy, has this been a bizarre few days," he declared. "It's hard to believe that everything's going back to normal."

"That's an understatement, I'm afraid," Perry remarked. "Paul, I'm sorry that we gave you and Hamilton so much trouble."

"It's not like you could help it," Paul said with a sigh.

"I feel terrible about it anyway," Perry said. He shook his head. "A couple of hours ago I was talking about how strange it was to think of our lives being lies. Now I'm wondering how I ever believed any of what I thought was true. I forgot not only the nature of my relationships with certain people, but other certain people altogether."

"You weren't the only one," Della said. She kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. "But it was interesting what happened, how I found a newspaper with an article about your latest case. Something drew me to it. I had the oddest feeling that I should have been in the courtroom, taking notes. So I bought the paper and puzzled over it. When Andy told me Paul had been looking for me, and what he had been saying, I was more confused than ever!"

Perry nodded. "And when Hamilton first mentioned your name, it was the only thing about his stories that really stood out. I didn't know why and I didn't understand how, but I knew I had to find out who you were."

"Vivalene and her crew must have been livid when they realized that the spell hadn't quite worked as they had planned," Della remarked.

"Naturally," Perry said. "That was why they worked so hard to keep us apart—causing me to get into a wreck, abducting you and Paul and Andy. . . ."

"And in the end they still couldn't win," Paul interjected.

Della shook her head. "I wonder if they really thought that us meeting would break the spell altogether."

"They must have been afraid it would," Perry said. "And I suppose that, indirectly, they were right. Their influence over you began to crumble shortly after that. You were anxious to jump in and believe what you'd been told. It was your attitude that led to myself and the others becoming more receptive."

"There, you see? Never doubt the power of a woman's mind," Della smiled.

"Oh, I don't," said Perry.

The sight of the damaged streets sobered them all as they continued to downtown Los Angeles. Della shook her head.

"I was hoping that when the spell broke, it might take care of all of this destruction too," she said. "I guess that was a silly hope. It would only happen in children's fairy stories."

"This entire experience has been rather like a fairytale in some ways," Perry mused. "An evil witch, a cruel spell, the heroes up against seemingly unattainable odds. . . . Even the idea of an enchanted death." But he fell somber at these words.

". . . I really thought we'd lost him." Paul spoke quietly.

Della nodded. "The fall could have killed him even though the blast didn't," she said.

"One thing's sure," Perry said. "Someone was watching over him."

"I think that goes for all of us," Della said.

"I agree," Perry said.

Soon they arrived at Paul's residence. He climbed out, surveying the building with a scrutinizing and suspicious eye. "It looks like it's still standing," he said.

"We could come in with you and make sure everything's in order," Perry offered.

"No, that's okay." Paul waved a dismissive hand. "If the furniture's fallen on the bed I'll just move it and pick things up later."

"If you're sure," Della said, doubtfully.

"I'm sure," Paul said. "Don't stay out too late, kids!" He waved as he shut the car door and headed up the walk.

Della shook her head. "He's in high spirits," she remarked.

"Don't be so sure," Perry said. "I believe Paul is quite shaken by what happened."

Della waited a moment to be sure Paul was not coming back out before she started the engine. "I knew he had a soft spot for Mr. Burger," she said.

Perry nodded. "Of course, Paul wouldn't want anyone to be dead," he said. "But for it to have been Hamilton affected him even more than he probably thought it would."

Della drove in silence for a time. ". . . Perry . . . what if all of us had forgotten?" she wondered. "Mr. Burger and Paul too. What would have happened to us then?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Perry pondered on the question. It had been in his mind as well. "I like to think that we still would have found each other. And then perhaps the spell still would have weakened and eventually broke."

"But it could have taken months, even years." Della's voice was nearly a whisper.

"Yes," Perry agreed. "It could have."

"We would have lost so much of our lives before finding the truth again." Della pulled up in front of Perry's apartment building.

Perry shifted to look at her as she turned off the engine. "We owe so much to both Paul and Hamilton," he said. "I and some of the others made it so difficult for them, but they never gave up."

Della passed him the car keys, their hands touching as she did. "I'll never stop being thankful for what they did," she said, looking into his eyes. "And for whatever caused them to keep their memories in the first place."

Perry smiled. "We both will."

Suddenly realizing something, he looked down at the keys. "Wait a minute, how will you get home without taking my car?"

"I'll call a cab," Della said.

"There's no need for that." Perry passed the keys back to her. "I can't drive for a few days anyway. Go ahead and drive my car home. Tomorrow, you can pick me up for a change."

Della looked down at the small metal objects in her hand. Her surprise lasted for only a moment. "Alright," she smiled. "I'll be over bright and early, Mr. Mason."

Perry glanced at his watch. "Maybe we'd better make it 'bright and slightly later'," he mused. "Unless we want to show up after two hours of sleep."

Della looked at her own watch, wincing to see the time. "We don't have any pressing cases," she said. "I'm sure that would be just fine."

"Good," Perry smiled. "Then I'll expect you at ten o'clock sharp."

Della quirked an eyebrow. "You're feeling daring," she said. "We'll get four hours of sleep."

"Well," Perry said, reaching to open the passenger door, "that's not so bad, is it?" His smile was mischievous. "We may not have any pressing cases now, but who knows what tomorrow will bring."

Della watched him, shaking her head. "I can't say I missed the long hours," she said. "When I was teaching school I was always asleep by a reasonable time."

"Ah, but it wasn't anywhere as exciting, was it?" Perry returned.

The smile tugging on Della's lips finally broke through. "No," she said. "It wasn't. And I wouldn't trade my real job for anything, even more sleep. But," she added, "not because of the excitement."

"Oh?" Perry returned. "What, then?"

Della just continued to smile. "That, Mr. Mason, is a woman's secret."

"I see," Perry said. "Well, I know better than to try to solve that mystery. A woman should keep her secrets at almost all times."

"Almost?" Della repeated.

"Unless her secrets have to do with a case," Perry said.

Della gave him a Look.

The teasing mood faded, replaced by a fond smile. "You know, there's something my job has that I can't find anywhere else," Perry said. "The best possible secretary."

At last Della smiled again, touched. "And mine has something _I_ can't find anywhere else," she said. "The best possible boss."

xxxx

Perry was right about Paul. As the detective paced around his abode, getting ready for some badly needed sleep, he was troubled.

He ran his hands into his hair. The sight of Vivalene's surprise attack on Burger, and his subsequent plunge down the stairs, was playing over and over in his mind. Howie's and Mignon's bone-chilling screams were there too.

It puzzled him. Everything had turned out alright. Burger was alive and well. He would be back to his usual _charming_ self before too long. And Paul would probably be back to not knowing what to think of him.

He paused on his way out of the bathroom. His rationale was not working. He knew the truth—after what they had been through, he was not likely to ever look at Hamilton in the same way as before. He had been forced to realize something he had never really been aware of before this had happened. Deep down, he had known just as much as Hamilton had that they had become friends.

Maybe what bothered him was the fact that consciously, he had not known. Maybe he wondered if he ever would have, if something drastic had not happened. After they had discovered they both remembered the truth, they had been forced to rely on each other all along the way. Whether or not Paul had believed in him, Hamilton had never let him down. Paul would have liked to think the same about himself. They had made a good team.

Only Paul _did_ feel that he had let Burger down, more than once. He had been wary of them working together. Of course, Burger had felt the same way, but it was probably because of how Paul had often made him feel. Perhaps he had not actually felt unwelcome—Paul had tried to be friendly enough, especially when he knew how Perry felt—but Paul had likely been loud and clear about his reservations.

On the other hand, for all he knew, Burger felt the same way about this and was regretting his actions in the past that had fueled Paul's feelings. Actually, he had admitted that. He did not have anything personal against Perry or Paul. And he felt bad when he blew up at either of them or was forced to get them into situations where their careers were at stake.

And then there was what had happened tonight. If Paul could have been free to run over, to grab Vivalene from behind and pull her away, maybe that attack never would have happened. Maybe she never would have had the chance to try to kill her hated nemesis.

And if Hamilton had really been dead, would Paul have ever forgiven himself?

He sank onto the edge of his bed. These were questions he could not answer. That bothered him too.

And all of this was probably why he had hung back when everyone had been reuniting with Burger after his revival. If he had not looked back at Paul, his eyes filled with questions, Paul might not have said anything until after sorting through his mixed-up feelings. Right now, he was not sure how long that would take.

He groaned, falling back against the pillows. "What a day," he mumbled to the night. "What a mess."

xxxx

It was a couple of hours later before Lieutenant Tragg arrived back home. For a moment he stayed in the car, staring at the house.

Of course Maureen would not be waiting for him. She had not been there in the flesh for years. And her impostors were safely locked away. He would not go inside and be met by someone who was pretending to be Maureen.

The lights were on, however. Perhaps Lucy was home. If she was, she was probably worried sick.

"I could go in with you."

Tragg started, looking to Andy as he spoke. Andy understood the reason for the hesitation. Sincere concern was in his eyes.

"Thank you, Andy," Tragg said. "But no; it's alright." He moved to get out of the car. "I can face it."

The door flew open long before he reached the porch. "Uncle Arthur!" Lucy exclaimed. She ran outside, her pumps clicking on the stairs and her dark curls bouncing on her shoulders. "I've been worried sick! Suddenly I realized I was at some cabin in the mountains with a bunch of people I don't even know. When I tried to call you, I couldn't find you anywhere! The police didn't even know what was going on!" Her hands flew to her hips. "Where were you?"

Tragg smiled a bit, even as he was somewhat dizzy from the tirade. It was nice, to know that he was not returning to a house filled only with furniture and memories. He ambled over to her, placing an arm around her waist. "Well, it's a long story," he said as he led her to the house. "Let's go inside and maybe we'll talk about it."

Andy smiled too, starting the engine of the police car. Tragg would be alright.

He glanced to the passenger in the backseat. "I'll take you home now, Steve," he said. "Unless you'd like to go somewhere else."

"Home is fine," Steve hurried to say. He leaned back, shaking his head. "You know, the strangest thing about being a private eye in that mixed-up world? I was associating with Vern St. Cloud."

Andy's eyebrows rose. "That sounds like a whole new element to things being 'mixed up'," he commented.

"Oh yes," Steve nodded. "He's a bad enough P.I. when he remembers. He's actually worse without any of his memories."

Andy chuckled. "That's hard to picture."

"It's true," Steve said.

"I don't doubt it," Andy said.

xxxx

Hamilton eased himself back into the car at the hospital parking lot. Mignon walked around to the driver's side. Her posture and walk spoke of her relief. She climbed in as well and stuck the key in the ignition.

"It's good that Larry really wasn't hurt too much worse," Hamilton said.

Mignon nodded. "But they still want him for observation." She looked to him. "And perhaps you should have taken them up on that as well."

"For me they said it wasn't necessary," Hamilton said. "If I rest. And I'd rather rest at home."

Mignon sighed. "Of course you would. So would Larry, for that matter."

"Does anyone really like spending the night in a hospital?" Hamilton said.

"I doubt it."

Now that they were alone, Hamilton did not intend to allow the silence to persist. The ride to the hospital had been almost entirely devoid of conversation. Mignon had not wanted to talk in front of Larry.

Apparently Mignon no longer wanted to be taciturn, either. "One night in a hospital room would be better than being in the morgue." She held the steering wheel tighter. "Hamilton, I was standing upstairs when that . . . _murderess_ attacked you. I saw the look on your face right before you fell."

"I'm sorry, Mignon," Hamilton said quietly. "If I could go back and do it over, I would do everything in my power to keep it from happening. What I hate the most about it is what I ended up putting you and the others through."

"You might not be able to stop it," Mignon said. "And if time-travel were possible, it would be better to erase all of the last few days from existence." She paused. "No. Perhaps they should have happened. It was a good look into each of our souls."

"Mignon . . ." Hamilton looked to her. "You can't judge yourself on this. You didn't remember. In your mind, I'd hurt you. And . . . well, I guess it seemed almost irreparable."

"That doesn't matter," Mignon said. "I should have listened to you. I thought I believed you, Hamilton. But I couldn't have, not completely."

"Mignon, you were the first one who listened at all," Hamilton said. "You don't know what a comfort and a relief that was to me."

"But I _did_ have 'baggage attached'," Mignon returned.

". . . Oh." Hamilton winced. "You heard that."

"I'm not offended, Hamilton. It's the truth. And I'm grateful that Miss Street was there for you." Mignon kept her eyes on the road now. "I only wish that I'd been as loyal a friend as she turned out to be."

"Mignon, if Della had thought I'd hurt her, I'm sure she would have acted the same way," Hamilton protested. "For some reason, Vivalene didn't make either Della or Andy upset with me. I guess she thought it was better if they were away from everyone else and didn't remember altogether. With Della that made sense. Although why she chose Andy too is beyond me."

"Maybe it was further revenge against him, since she tried to kill him in the past," Mignon said.

"Maybe," Hamilton said. "Or maybe it was to keep him away from Tragg. But Mignon, the point is that I don't want you to agonize over this. You were being manipulated. Everyone was."

"Logically, I know that," Mignon said. "But I also know that I wounded you deeply, probably just as deeply as I thought you'd wounded me. I saw the look in your eyes each time I rejected you. And when I found you lying at the bottom of those stairs and I thought there was no hope, that look came back and haunted me.

"I saw Mr. Mason speak with you before we entered Mr. Vann's mansion. I didn't hear his words, but I didn't need to in order to know how they affected you. You were buoyed up. And that was something I hadn't been able to do for you. I wished with all of my heart that I would have told you the truth, even with the others around, instead of doing nothing and realizing that you died without knowing."

She pulled into the driveway of Hamilton's house and stopped. "At the hospital, Howie wanted to know if you and I were still friends. When I told him I didn't think we had ever stopped being friends, he pleaded with me to do something about it. 'Tell him it's okay,' he said. 'Tell him you still love him and want to be friends.'"

Hamilton chuckled softly. "Howie's pretty perceptive for his age."

They slowly got out of the car, Mignon walking with Hamilton to the porch. She looked up at him when they arrived. "In the more than twenty years we've known each other, I haven't told you enough how grateful I've been for our friendship. You were always there when I needed you most. And you were there on the average, ordinary days as well. You've been loyal, interested, and honest. I've carried that with me.

"But I can't remember if I've ever told you at all that I love you."

Hamilton's eyes flickered with surprise. "I love you too," he said. "But I've known how you feel." He hesitated before drawing her close. "Some things don't have to be said in words."

Mignon stiffened, not feeling that she deserved his words or his embrace. But she could not bear to close herself off again. Not now. She shut her eyes tight and fell into his arms, clutching at her forgiving friend.

xxxx

**I haven't gone back on my feelings about not putting romance in these stories. I feel that those in a deep friendship should be able to express such sentiments without it being construed as romantic.**

**One more segment to go. Thank you to everyone who has shown interest, and who has stuck it out with me this long. I know this has been a pretty strange story.**


	17. Epilogue

**Notes: And this is the end of what is probably the most convoluted and twisted **_**Perry**_** story you'll ever read. Thank you for putting up with me, and if you actually enjoyed this madness, I'm thrilled. I'm starting a new project tomorrow, on the community 31 Days at the Livejournal website. It will be a series of vignettes for Hamilton and Mignon, and I'd love to have you drop in if you're interested. I don't know if I'll be posting the vignette series on this website too. I may start another mystery story here. If I do, it will probably involve Perry's friend Jerry Reynolds and some of the other characters from **_**The Misguided Missile**_** (albeit it will take place in Los Angeles instead of on the Air Force base). If that sounds interesting, I hope you'll stick around to give it a try. Thank you again!**

**Epilogue**

Hamilton closed Flo's file and placed it in his briefcase. Still on his desk was Vivalene's file, which had been there the next time he had gone into his office following the night in Mr. Vann's mansion.

Several days had passed since then. Los Angeles had been recovering from what the freak storm had done to it. The people had rallied, banding together to rebuild homes and buildings and other casualties.

Other things could not be mended so easily. There had been several fatalities. Some people were still alive, but in critical condition. Some would be a long time in recovering.

Hamilton glowered at Vivalene's file. It bothered him that he did not know how to prosecute her crew for any damage done during the storm. In order to accomplish that, he would have to prove that they had set in place the elements that had caused the upheaval. Basically, he would have to prove the existence of magic. And he was not prepared for that. The _world_ was not prepared for that.

He stuffed Vivalene's file into his briefcase as well. Even if he could somehow get around that and pass the box off as some sort of scientific creation, he could imagine how that would go. Countless people with both good and ill intentions would clamor to get a piece of it. It was too dangerous to let its existence become common knowledge. He would have to be content with the mountains of charges the criminals were already facing and see that the box remained a secret.

The others in the know about what had really happened were getting back to their normal lives. For some, it would take a while to fully integrate. Lieutenant Tragg was still shaken by Vivalene and Flo's plot to pretend to be Maureen. But what distressed him the most was what he had done under their control. He had apologized profusely to both Steve and Hamilton, considering it his fault that they had each nearly died.

His niece Lucy had been let in on everything. Though stunned, she had believed it. Hamilton was relieved about that. She would be able to help her uncle's wounds heal.

Paul had been very scarce the last few days. Hamilton was not sure what was wrong with him, but the situation concerned him. He was almost to the point where he felt he might make an effort to seek Paul out if he did not reappear today. Hamilton had given him the space he figured was wanted. But perhaps that was not what he should have done.

And apparently those on the other side had tried to get through to their still-living loved ones. Hamilton had heard Andy mentioning something about Otto Norden attempting to contact him repeatedly through his dreams. He had heard from Otto one last time, once everything had been set back in place. Otto had congratulated Andy on his part in the battle and had expressed his relief that it was over.

Hamilton did not quite know what to make of that. It could have been a series of perfectly normal dreams, brought on by Andy's subconscious recollections of his dear friend. But even Hamilton had been forced to admit that Andy must have undergone an out-of-body experience after Vivalene had tried to kill him. There had been too much proof that Andy had witnessed everything that the others had done after his death. And he had met Otto then. So there was really no reason, Hamilton supposed, why Otto could not have subsequently contacted him in dreams.

He shook his head. His perfectly logical world had been turned completely upsidedown. And he did not like it one bit. Suddenly there was not a simple explanation for half of what went on in the world. It made him feel very vulnerable and not in control.

"Mr. Burger?"

Hamilton looked up as the intercom buzzed. He pressed the button. "Yes? What is it, Leon?"

"Perry Mason is here to see you."

Hamilton leaned back. "Send him in," he said.

"Yes, Sir."

The door opened a moment later. "Hamilton." Perry stepped into the room, bearing a smile of greeting. He shut the door behind him.

Hamilton stood from his desk. "It's good to see you, Perry," he said. "What brings you here?"

Perry walked over. "Flo's trial reopens today," he said. "I didn't want to miss that."

"Yes, but that's in court, not my office," Hamilton pointed out.

"I know." Perry paused. "Is it true that Flo is pleading Guilty?"

"That's right," Hamilton said. "I don't know what's in her mind. It's certainly not the plea I would have expected from her."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you to watch her, Hamilton," Perry said. "She was the one who wanted that box long before it was ever found or before Vivalene had an interest in it. She must surely have some devious plan now."

"I know. And I have Mr. Vann and Judge Heyes waiting in the wings." Hamilton frowned. "Somehow I doubt that they're in on that plan and will plead Guilty too."

"What did you find to charge them with?" Perry wondered.

Hamilton sighed. "Well, aside from the criminal charges Heyes was already facing, I managed to get him and Vann charged with conspiracy, theft, child endangerment, kidnapping, and group hypnosis," he said. "Flo's facing most of those, as well as fraud and impersonation. Vivalene would be charged with those as well as with another count of attempted murder, if she wasn't lying comatose in the prison hospital ward."

"I see," Perry said. "What do the doctors say about her prognosis?"

"They're completely baffled," Hamilton said. "They don't know why she's in a coma at all. And they don't know if she'll ever come out of it."

Perry nodded. "It is difficult to get through this case without mentioning black magic, isn't it," he said. "Is Judge Penner actually going for your group hypnosis charge?"

"He admitted that he knew something strange was going on," Hamilton said. "He told me in confidence that he believed in the supernatural, but of course that wouldn't fly in court. He's willing to go along with the group hypnosis idea."

"But we know it wasn't just that," Perry said, searching Hamilton's eyes as he spoke.

They flickered with discomfort. "Perry, I'll be honest," Hamilton said. "I don't know _what_ happened. I'd rather believe in group hypnosis than a mystical box and slab. But for those few days I was forced to believe that maybe magic really is real. Maybe it is; I'll concede that much." He placed a hand over his heart. "Whatever Vivalene hit me with sure didn't feel like a hypnotic hallucination. And the bump I got is real enough."

"So is the fact that we believed you were dead," Perry said, completely sobered. "And you continued to look dead until we heard that shattering noise and our right memories were restored."

Hamilton stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "You know, I heard some of what you and the others were saying back then. I guess it's like they say about unconscious people hearing more than anyone thinks they do."

"I guess so." Perry hesitated. It was odd, how he always managed to find the right words in court but this conversation stumped him. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he felt _should_ be said, and yet he could not seem to string any of it together.

"Hamilton," he tried now, "it was terrible enough to see you lying there before my memories came back. Once I fully knew the truth, it was almost unbearable."

Hamilton looked awkward. "Perry, it's alright," he said. "You don't have to apologize any more. You didn't have to in the first place."

"This isn't an apology, Hamilton," Perry said. "This is me telling you that I don't want to see anything like this happen again. Another time, it might not be just a trick of Vivalene's or some other enemy. It might be real. And I don't want to find myself looking upon your lifeless body, any more than I want to see the body of anyone else I deeply care about.

"We've clocked in many long years of courtroom battles and solving cases, and in the process we've discovered and cultivated something invaluable—our friendship. I want to see us both remain alive to share in it for many years to come."

Hamilton was both surprised and strongly affected by Perry's words. For a moment he was silent, taking in all that Perry had told him. Then at last he responded.

"I agree," he said. "I don't want to be thrown into a situation like this ever again. Perry, you should follow more of your own advice. You take too many chances!"

Perry chuckled. "It is a bit like the pot calling the kettle black," he remarked.

"And then some," Hamilton said. "But seriously Perry, I appreciate what you're trying to say. I'm glad you're back to normal to say it." He drew a deep breath. "Those few days, whatever was responsible for them, were the worst days I've ever had. If Vivalene wanted to torture me, she couldn't have found a better way to do it. She tried to take away everyone who's important to me, including you."

"And we still don't know why you and Paul remembered the truth at all," Perry mused. "Vivalene claimed you were both supposed to forget."

Hamilton nodded. "It's funny," he said. "Before any of this started, Mignon told me that sometimes it's worse for those who don't believe in magic than for those who do. She said that magic doesn't always affect the unbelievers the same way. And let me tell you, Paul and I are two of the most skeptical people around."

"You're saying you wonder if that's why you both remembered?" Perry returned. "Because you're among the unbelievers?"

"I don't know," Hamilton sighed. "I don't even know if I'm willing to admit there really was magic." He started to pace the floor in front of his desk. "Some people might say instead that it was meant to happen that way, that it was God's way of saying that He was in charge and He wasn't going to let Vivalene's plan win out. It could have eventually destroyed the whole world, I suppose."

"So He entrusted you and Paul with the task of shattering the spell," Perry finished.

"That's the idea," Hamilton said. "Not that I know that's true, either. It sounds so arrogant and self-righteous to even suggest something like that. Maybe it was just coincidence, with no meaning behind it."

"Perhaps," Perry said. "Now that it's over, I suppose it doesn't really matter."

"No, it doesn't," agreed Hamilton.

"But you would still like to know the answer," Perry deduced.

"Wouldn't you?" Hamilton said.

Perry thought about that. "It would be nice," he said. "But I'm just grateful that you and Paul did remember, without wondering how it came about. The both of you sacrificed so much to bring us to this moment."

"And it was worth every moment of it," Hamilton declared. "I just hope Paul's alright," he added with a frown. "I thought I might've seen him around before now."

"I think he would greatly benefit from talking with you," Perry said.

"I'll see what I can do about that, then." Hamilton looked up at Perry. "I'll have to get going for court before long."

Perry nodded. "If you call on me today, I'll gladly serve as a witness for the state," he said. "But I'll be just as glad to sit as a spectator in the gallery and watch you work to convict Flo."

Hamilton straightened and grabbed his briefcase, leafing through the contents to make sure he had not forgotten anything. "I can't figure her out," he said. "I have this feeling that anything she may have done that didn't hurt us, such as not interfering when Paul and I went up to Tragg, was just so she could further a plot against her sister."

"Is that part of your case against her?" Perry asked.

"Yes, it is." Hamilton frowned. "Both of those women disturb me to no end. I'll be glad when Flo is in prison."

"So will I," Perry said.

Hamilton paused. ". . . Vivalene kissed me at the same time she was trying to kill me," he remarked. "I can't decide if she was trying to distract me, torment me one last time, or fulfill some 'woman scorned' complex."

Perry considered that. "Perhaps all three," he said. "You _were_ the first among us whom she tried to seduce, both now and three years ago. And you always rejected her advances. She may have been bitter about that. Somehow I don't think she takes kindly to rejection."

"I'm glad Flo doesn't seem to care about that, at least," Hamilton sighed. "When she's herself and not pretending to be Vivalene, she doesn't flirt much."

The intercom buzzed again. "Mr. Burger?" Leon called. "Mignon Germaine is here."

Hamilton leaned over the desk to press the button. "Alright. Thank you, Leon. Send her in."

Leon had been absolutely bewildered when his true memories had come back. He had listened as Hamilton had tried to explain to him what had happened, using the group hypnosis theory. He was not sure he was fully sold on it, but he did not know what other possibility there could be. Hamilton was not sure he would confide in Leon about the whole truth. He supposed he might, if Leon continued to be bothered. Still, he hoped it would not come to that.

The door opened and Mignon stepped inside. "Hello, Hamilton," she greeted. "Mr. Mason."

Hamilton stood. "It's good to see you, Mignon," he said.

Perry smiled to himself. "I'll see you in court, Hamilton," he said. "Hello, Mrs. Germaine."

Mignon nodded to him.

Perry walked past and out the door, heading for the elevators.

Hamilton watched him go past before turning his attention back to Mignon. "What brings you here, Mignon?" he asked.

"I wanted to talk with you, Hamilton," Mignon said. "There's a Christmas party this Friday, for the staff of the Club Caribe. Everyone is allowed to bring someone as his or her guest. Larry will be there, as Agnes's. I would be honored if you would be mine."

Hamilton was again surprised. "I'd be happy to come," he said.

Mignon smiled. "It starts at six-thirty."

"Should I pick you up or meet you there?" Hamilton wondered.

"I'll be there," Mignon said. "Just come to the club."

"I'll do that," Hamilton said.

"It's strange," Mignon remarked. "The normal order of things has been restored, but we still carry the memories of what happened for those few nightmarish days. So does everyone else who was involved."

"Even the rest of the staff at Howie's school?" Hamilton blinked.

Mignon nodded. "Even them. And for them it's worse than for us. They don't know why there was suddenly a temporary new principal and a new second-grade teacher. If it wasn't that they all know they remember, each one would probably think they were losing their mind."

Hamilton winced. "Do you still have the box and the pieces of the slab?"

"Yes. They should all be destroyed, but it has to be in the correct way. Otherwise it might only cause worse trouble."

Hamilton really wished it was not necessary to have this conversation. "How are you going to find out the correct way?" he exclaimed.

"There actually is a man in Oregon who may have the answers," Mignon said. "I've left a message for him to contact me."

Hamilton shook his head. "I hope he will. Oh, what are the Petersons going to do about that treasure?" he wondered.

"The coins have been claimed by the museum," Mignon said, "in return for a good-sized payment. They told Mr. Welles that the box they had called him about had been stolen and they didn't know what had happened to it. It's not a complete lie; they don't know where I've taken it now."

"That's probably for the best," Hamilton said. "I spoke with Welles shortly after he came out of the coma. He told me about the man who hit him. It's one of the men who beat up Larry."

Mignon's visage tightened. "And he works for Mr. Vann, who in turn was in the employ of Judge Heyes," she remarked.

Hamilton nodded. "I think Vann was planning to break out on his own," he said. "None of them wanted to keep working together."

"It's true, that there is no honor among thieves," Mignon sighed.

"That's what I've found time and again," Hamilton said.

Mignon nodded. "I know you're busy, Hamilton," she said. "I'll see you later today, at the courthouse."

"Alright," Hamilton answered. "Drop in again sometime. Don't be a stranger."

Mignon smiled. "I won't. I'd like to see you at the club more often, too."

"Fair enough," Hamilton said.

He sat at his desk, pondering for several moments after Mignon said goodbye and left. At last coming to a decision, he pressed the intercom button. "Leon, how long before I have to be in court?"

"An hour, Sir."

"Thank you." Hamilton got up from his desk and grabbed his hat. There was enough time. He would go find Paul and try to get to the bottom of that mystery once and for all.

He stopped short in surprise when he reached the elevators. As the doors opened, Paul stepped out. When he found himself staring at the district attorney, he froze.

"Paul, what are you doing here?" Hamilton asked. "I was going out to look for you."

Paul shifted uncomfortably. "I was coming here to talk to you," he half-mumbled.

Hamilton gestured back down the hall. "It's about time," he commented. "Let's go."

xxxx

It was an hour later when Hamilton left the building and headed for his car.

He and Paul had talked most of that time. The issues Paul had brought up had surprised him. Likewise, Paul had seemed surprised by Hamilton's answers. But in the end they had parted with a much-needed understanding, as friends. It was a weight off both their minds.

Hamilton glanced at the asphalt in the parking garage as he got off the service elevator. All across the car park it was cracked and damaged from the earthquakes. Crews were planning to come and repair the jagged fissures, once the more serious calamities elsewhere in the city were taken care of.

The sound of a Christmas carol carried across the space from another car's radio. Hamilton did not pause to listen, but he took in the words as he reached his own vehicle.

Peace on earth was a long way coming. But for now, Hamilton was just grateful that relative peace had been restored to his life and the lives of his close friends.

It would be a good Christmas season.


End file.
